Racing Thoughts

Just to that tree. That's as far as I'll go. Well, Naturally, I'll have to turn around afterwards. But no farther than that tree. The fields had been trotting by me as I made my way through the country-side, all willy-nilly and what have you.
How far is it anyway? Maybe that's why I asked? Only getting there ever really answers that question. It's fun to speculate but it's the getting there that actually proves it, the "it" being what I don't know. The journey, the quest, the adventure. That eternal voyage where the story lies.
What's it like when you get there? Well, it turns out it's just a tree, as expected, and then I turn around. Is there a new goal? A new vision for my eyes to feast upon? If there is, it's only in my mind. Heck, isn't that what makes a goal anyway? The fact that it's there, in your mind.
While the goal may not be visible, the journey sure is. I see it. Stretching out before my strides. In a blur by me as I pass onlookers with their mouths open and landscapes burnt dry by the scorching sun.
An old woman stops me as I approach. I passed her on my way out and, just as I said in local language, I'm back. She shoves some peanuts in my hand and we say our goodbyes. I couldn't help but take the nuts, the novelty of running with a handful of nuts suiting my comic disposition. What's more, their presence added a rhythmic backbeat as I bounded up and down on the sandy road back to village.
The unbaked clay fetish is still there, as it has been for countless years, as I approach the village limits. Phallus pointed at me, locked and loaded, and a devilish grin, half welcoming half menecing, greets me as I approach. Legba, this region's Pan, Coyote, the trouble maker. I try to stay on his good side more often than not, to varying degrees of success as friends and family can attest. I pass him smiling, mimicking his grin, as I always attempt to do.
Still no goal in sight as the hills recede and signs of habitation increase. Unless, of course, you count the mind's eye. And that, in any regards, is rather shrouded over with thoughts. Dancing Zangbetos mingle with two stepping loved ones and memories of long ago. Regrets and hopes meet in a terrible tango only assuaged by the salutations of my neighbors as I pass.
The goal is made mental by the journey because the journey is so ubiquitous. It envelopes you, surrounds you, chews you up and spits you back out. It hits you, hugs you, knocks you down and builds you back up. Running makes that clear. It's Reader's Digest for life. As I approach my house, I almost wish that it doesn't materialize. That it somehow will stay hidden so I can prolong the journey. But it doen't work like that. It'll show and I'll have to forget all of these thoughts for another twenty hours or so. But ca rest tomorrow. And who knows what the goal (or should I say journey?) will be then.