I'd be lying if I said I know where I'm headed, I don't. I just get up and walk, one foot in front of the other, suspicious with every step that I've circled this path a thousand times before. Sometimes I believe there's an oasis over the next hill, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I question what the purpose in going on, or the purpose of purpose, if purpose is such a thing.
Most of my doubt is conjured from within, the poison of my own making, and I drink it like wine on a sun scorched day. It quenches for a moment, then leaves me dry and intoxicated, more lost that before I fell into its web. But every once in a while I'll remember something beautiful. A spring I passed along the way, a small light on a dark night, a smiling stranger in passing.
Then I realize that maybe this desert is exactly where I'm meant to be. Because the spring never tastes better than when you've suffered to get to it. The light in the dark never shines brighter than when the darkness is clutching your feet. And the smile of a stranger never seems sweeter than when you've braved the hills of hell for forever and a day.
