"I love the tiny, sticky spring leaves, the blue sky, so there it is! There's no sense in it, no logic . . ."
You are running. You are running and you cannot run any faster, and the sky engulfed in green flickers with a striping, blending, obstinate brown scar of life and not life -- fear and unfear. You see every leaf on every tree, the colors of every flower, and somehow the smeared reality of it all is continuous and separate, transience and permanence alike. Every ant has made his journey across your path a thousand times and he is at once in all the places he has been and will ever be. Every flower blooms and unblooms, falling under the weight of its own opening, rising backwards to bud and stem, pausing gently mid-flight in one last entrancing display. There is nothing unknown here, you have seen it all and are seeing it all and again it rushes past in articulate unchanging motion.
You are running, but you don't know why. Everything around you is clear, nothing hidden, and you can see nothing that should make your soul sprint with your heart, your lungs, your mind. The green blur engulfs the sky and the sky is not obscured: sunlight trickles into every corner through cracks in the treetops that cannot possibly be there, and you note every crack from height to depth as the light seeps into the ground and out into the vastness on the other side -- green and blue and black and light. Ants and bears and undergrowth form a chimera altogether unlike itself, and each is altogether not the other though their motions meld and their actions are unsettlingly same. Only you are separate, a fleeing observer, an unwilling guest and an unwilling host. The scene would almost peaceful, if you weren't there to see it. Serene if not for the running.
You are running and you cannot stop. You cannot stop and you cannot continue and the infinitude of your stride is only dwarfed by the infinitude that remains ahead. Seeing around every trunk and every stream of light and under every sticky leaf, there are only more trunks, more cracks, more budding falling furling flowers. There is no distance though space is distinct, and the particularity of all things only heightens their separation and proximity to one another. You are running through a blur of definitions, a seamless mismatched pattern, stretched and ripped and unaffected in itself.
You are running through infinity, and infinity comes to an end. Still in the blur you are also at a great height, and below the pinnacle -- in and through and beyond and before the trees and leaves and light -- a shimmer. It is wide and unrelenting and straight. It is blinding, and yet you watch it. It is straight and thin and all consuming. It is the water below and the water above, but you are not the water in-between. You draw closer with every infinitely motionless infinite pounding step. You know you have reached the end of the heights without climbing, that the water below is closer without ever having moved. You are still running.
You are still running and there is no fear and there is no cause for fear and the beyond moves closer and stays precisely where it is and the trees grow from tiny pellets dropping flowers and growing again and receding into nascence with every heightened inch. You are still running and there is no more time. There is infinity in every moment, but the moment grows closer that you know is coming and for some reason has not come.
You are running and you know you must jump or fall or dive. You are running and you must enter the beyond and there is only one question:
When do you wake up?
