Wish

Today again, I remembered. It doesn’t happen very often, but sometimes when the wind is blowing smoothly like a river past my face and the night is particularly stark and bright, I can taste it. I can taste its colors and its frames, woody and faintly acrid on my skin, like an aged dark wine. I smell the crispness in the silhouettes of flat trees outlined against a mournful sky, and I hear echoes of colors bouncing through surfaces and spaces etched in lines of leaves. I feel the weight of the earth on my feet as they pass by one another into space as yet undiscovered.

Inevitably, I will succumb and open my eyes, but until then these glimpses that are bare perceptions caress a cloud of euphoria around the points at which my mind probes the world. I always hold out as long as I am able, but each time I become so mesmerized, so entrenched, that I cannot help but want to experience more, feel more, drink more, and I open my eyes.

Tonight it was particularly awful. Every instance of my being was split away from all the others by the currents of resistive purple, deeper than a cliff dive through an icewall. Horrifically, I could see the pain I experienced envelope me as an impenetrable force, deeper in despair than I could have imagined or remembered. I saw the chaos that drives the world apart, and I emerged, like always, screaming and sobbing without coherence or thoughts or even words. Eventually I stopped, but I continue to be, even as I write in this moment, deadened, solitary and confined as these colors bleed around my head indefinitely.

There's nothing in my mind except this hill. The trail is steep, and covered in burrs, which is uniquely comforting to my distended consciousness. Through the middle, a large rut wicks water through the shoulder of the ridge, forcing me to stay aware lest I lose an ankle to its jagged edges. Largely uninviting, the entire slope is dry and brittle, covered with summer growth that has long since wilted and died in the suffocating heat.

I teeter hesitantly for a moment at its base, then surge towards the trail, picking up my knees and lengthening my stride. My first step hits the incline, and I am forced to pull my body in sharply over my center. My dissatisfaction with this run, this day, this work, this path has blossomed into anger. The emotion spills out through my legs as I pound them harder, faster, stronger into the earth. With each passing thought I gain speed.

I am ready to sprint flat out when I get to the top of this garish place, but every summit I think I find is false. One, two, four places where the trail has dipped or curved so that its peak is hidden. Slowly my anger channels itself into a mild disappointment; I have expended the energy I had left over from this day. Eventually, my legs notice and I decelerate until I can once again appreciate the stationary immobility of this never-ending bump of packed, nondescript dust. I turn around and see sky, the hill, the path, a road, all deserted and grey beneath my feet. Defeated at my own game, I begin to jog back down. The hill takes me back, jubilant in its success as my feet are placed lightly and far apart. I am resigned, again, to merely experience this haphazard fling back into the end of my lackluster worn-out day.