Going

There was a man who loved a woman. He knew the direction in which he raced, metaphorically. There was a place where he would find some measure of happiness.

But where is it? The man wondered this to himself every day. Where am I trying to go? Where am I headed? There is a certain measure of insanity in sprinting as quickly as possible without knowing one's destination. For each instance in which he wondered this, a second thought quickly followed, in the manner of a person and his or her shadow, synchronous, inseparable, without discernible cause and effect. But if I cease my efforts to ponder this, if I take the time to consider for what and for whom I strive, should I pause and ponder the worth and the value of reaching this end of which I do not know, I shall never arrive.

And in this manner, he went. For he was not driven by fear, but by longing. Driven by a person he did not truly understand, or at least refused to, to an end which he surely did not know, and would never attain. It was not that he did not understand that each step he strode up an infinite dune simply pushed sand down and not himself upwards, it was that he simply kept his focus on the top of the hill, not bothering to see where he strode, not knowing that each foot was placed in the same place again, and again.

What stops such a man? In truth, he is never stopped and yet he is forever stopped, because he has never gone anywhere. He may fumble aimlessly for all eternity so long as he believes there is an end to his means. What he is doing unknowingly is waiting, waiting for the one whom he loves to match his movements in reverse, so that he need not go the distance, because that is not possible. He may make every effort, move mountains, part seas, storm the heavens, but all that matters not without a single step from her. This is so because he knows not even where heaven is in order to storm it, as his mind is elsewhere, distracted, forever longing.

Fortunately, this man is not a metaphor. Such people exist only as concepts sketched by a wicked writer's pen. In truth, not knowing the place to place one's struggle eventually meant for him that he ought not place himself at all. For one should only enter into heaven in order to stay there, and thus I will not advance until the time has come for me to go and remain.