The plane had gone down in an open field. The grass around the wreckage was burnt black. A man stumbled away from the loud bent metal and walked in a direction, towards nothing but away. He vowed never to fly again. He knew he could walk and he’d start from there.
Of course, he had some doubts about walking. He had been told that to get to where he wanted to go he must fly. “Perhaps so,” he thought, “but I will walk. I was never happy flying and it nearly killed me.”
Where did he want to go? He wanted to go to the end. He wanted to look out at the sea and be free. He wanted nothing except his family and the weather. He could be happy with his family in the weather. But where were they?
You have a couple of magic years and then you are set on a path. This path has a real beginning but an imaginary end. We think we must go somewhere. We move in lines. This just happens. Everyone does it. This great game of striving. We all have the right to be happy. The great irony is that we start there. We load ourselves down, enter into this bizarre pit of moving mash, and then try the rest of our lives to escape it.
We’re happiest when we are clean and simple.
As the man walked another plane flew overhead. He stopped and squinted up at the sky to watch the plane, blue on blue. He imagined the people on the plane were quite happy. They thought they were getting where they needed to go. They looked around and saw others like them. The comfort of numbers. He could shout up at the bottom of the plane but he knew it would do him no good. The plane roared for a few seconds and then slowly melted into the sky.
“Maybe they will get to their destination afterall,” the man thought. “There really is no telling.”
He walked with empty purpose through the landscape, swirling atoms.
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