Grey Hound

Speeding down the left-hand lane surrounded by the smell of grease, heavy in the air; a blanket choking the breath out of him. He pops the window open and closes his eyes as the wind streams through his hair. Caution, the words on the mirror read, Your past may be closer than it appears. Or maybe it's the future. Is there a difference?

He has been running for as long as he can remember, since he was old enough to resent his parents. Running from life, from love, from apathy. From expectations, from failure, from success. Running, and all the while screaming, hoping, praying that someone will follow; needing that person and hating them for his need. He wants to find her, wants to chase her down and rip her to pieces, then fall asleep in her lap while Rachmaninoff plays.

And how is that any different from any of us? Do we not destroy those we love; chip away at their psyches with kindness and devotion, remaking them in our own image? The cliche is redundant; love is war, and all is fair, fair as far as the eye can see.

Fair like her face, floating in the passing scenery.

Memory is a tower, one you ascend while living your life, locking doors behind you as you climb. Behind you, the bricks are disappearing, the mortar loosening, and one day you awaken and find yourself floating in the clouds, somewhere in the twilight between dawn and dusk. But there are some memories we do not forget, we can not forget, no matter how hard we try.

So it is.

This is the way the world ends.

This is the way the world ends.

Not with a bang.

Not with a whimper.

But with her smile.