Where the road ends

People talk to me like they know, but how can they know. They haven't walked 600 miles in my shoes. Don't tell me you know until your feet are blistered, your legs are sore, you are gasping dry, burning air, and your throat is parched and splintered. Don't tell me you've been there or that you get it because you DON'T. Maybe it's because my shoes are too big for your broken, bare feet, or maybe my shoes are just too small. But in reality the destination matters more than the shoes. In fact, I don't even want you touching my shoes...They are far too precious to me. My physics teacher once said that distance can only increase or stay still. How do you know if you don't try? SCREW PHYSICS! I live every day of my life like it is my last, because I don't know if I'm just going to drop dead one day, or find myself sleep walking on the freeway. I give life my soul, and then some. I just take one more step on ice and hope that it doesn't break and then another. I walk across the desert, one more step, one more step, one more step, and you know what, I have seen more and felt more because I try. Walk with me through the desert, pay no heed to the buzzards circling overhead, mocking you and telling you to that you will die. So what, I will die, one day, but they don't know that, so they just keep squawking. I have a will and my will says I will not die here! They say my fate is sealed, it's not. my fate is my own, and if you want to give into torment and collapse on the ground, don't worry, I'll bring back some water for you, because I know that there is an oasis somewhere ahead. somewhere. A pool of cold water and sweet nectarines. Then I can take a bath and finally, finally, wash away all of the sweat, grime, and blood, because tears and blood are the same to me and to anyone who has ever truly lived. So take one more step in your own shoes, don't use mine. I walk until I am pressing my cheek against the sun and can go no further. I block it's brutal glare as I stare at pinholes of light above me, coming from the floor of heaven. I ask them why they are so cruel and where the promised bath was, and the nectarines. If this is to be my fate, to sit here and die alone, then I don't want any part of it. I sit on the burning asphalt and stare behind me. The road is vacant. Of corse it is. Why would anyone follow my bubbling trail of rubber from my shoes. I listen to the buzzards laugh at me telling me that I am doomed. SO please don't tell me you know, and get your own shoes.