Author Information
That River
There is a river that flows beside me.
Some days I look onward, ignorant of its presence.
These are the days that I am excited to live.
For the river runs wild, and I walk calmly next to it.
But there are often those days where I must cross the river.
Never for myself, but for the wolves that chase me there.
They don't stop chasing.
Why do I run? Because I love the wolves. They're my closest friends.
I do it for them.
With good intentions, and their delusion of assitance
They're quick to howl, but quick to forget that I cannot swim.
I cannot swim.
Plunging into the river's icey embrace, Rigor Mortis finds me.
Like a crippled ballerina, I lack motion and grace.
I fight to stay afloat, but the river is strong, and I am weak.
I am so weak.
Solace is found in the fantasy of running away from the river.
Running until my legs collapse, then running some more.
To run from the river would be freedom.
Like Atlas relieved from the weight of the world.
But running is only a fantasy.
Because where I run, the wolves run faster.
They don't stop chasing.
I do it for them.
I cannot swim.
I am so weak.
