Imagine a man whose purpose is to walk forever.
Step by step, he sets off for the sunset.
He follows the Sun with nothing but
the clothes on his back,
the shoes on his feet,
and a box.
He walks for miles without rest,
and when people see him they ask
where he’s going.
“Nowhere in particular.”
Does he need a ride? “No, I need to do this myself.”
Doesn’t he want a break? "No, I have to get there as fast as I can. They’re counting on me.”
Who? “...”
Who is counting on him? "..."
Who is he walking for? "..."
Who is making him walk,
and walk,
and walk,
and walk?
Walk until his legs are numb and
his toes are sore; until his lips are dry and
his arms tremble like ruins collapse; until he’s so out of breath
he can barely answer this?
“The Sun.”
Ah. Of course. It’s the sun.
But... buh-buh-but no.
But how? How the sun?
Don’t you know it’s impossible?
“Yes, but I will make it."
"I see the rays of silver behind the thundering clouds.
I feel the warming glow despite a lonely world.
"When I was stood on that cliff aaaaaall
the way back there,” and he pointed
to the same horizon he walked towards,
“ready to fall dumb into the depths
of all despair and gloom,
my Sun set the sea ablaze and gave me beautiful sight.
"When I was every wrong, it guided me as all stars do.
Bright, beautiful, alive."
"There," he said, as though certain.
And then the man looked forward. “And so I will make it there, to Them, to my Sun.
I can reach Them. Because I see Them setting.
Because even the Sun might grow weary.
Even its light might fade.
But if it does, I will be there.
I must.”
And so he walks.
He walks up hills and valleys,
over canyons and through rivers.
He walks past lightning-struck trees,
and whisperless forests.
He walks past the cliff where he found his Sun.
He walks forever and a half with
the clothes on his back,
the shoes on his feet,
and a match in a box,
so he can relight the Sun.
And this man, who dreams of Morning, lives in it.
He is then pitiful, broken, and a man less fit.
For who would run till death, for death, to death?
To love the Sun, he is scorched by just Their breath.
That is my unorthodox but undeniable end.
To live in pain and wrongly feel that I have the power to mend.
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