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The city is no distant memory to me.

There are some who fight daily to convince their own selves that what they experienced,
was real at all. That what happened, happened once. And whats gone,

well. Its not here, to say the least.

There are those who will walk to the ocean, compelled by some lost feeling, and spin their minds into the waters. Hoping that underneath the surface, theres some truth amidst all the salt and ice.

There are those who cannot stop themselves from waking aside their mate in the hushed hours of the morning. They will walk by their children's rooms and yearn, and with wishing tears, cry and hope that their spawn and heirs will one day understand why they had to leave.
And then, in bare feet, they will walk out of their front door, and down the warm asphalt.

Then.... there are those who accumulate everything. Who hold their love, their money, their family, their life, so close to their hearts, with frightening proximity. And with every whim, they will gyre and wield it to only pervade their wishes. They will ultimately hate what they have. And they will still seek.

There have been stories of men who climbed to the tallest thing they could reach within two hundred miles. They climbed it. Somehow. And stood on top of its pinnacle and threw their arms up towards the sky.

I know of men who just kept on driving..... On their way home from work, on their paper route, to pick up their kids. They'll just keep on going. Perhaps when the car crumples with thirst, they'll walk the rest until the day the die.
Never to return to that place they thought they were headed.



I can show them the way.

What is the city on the hill?

Home.

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