A Motorcycle Trip through Heaven and Hell (a Metaphorical Trip through Personal Philosophy) PART ONE The wind is chilled; it cuts freely across the open Prairie of North Dakota, almost seeming to play about with sublime delight. There is nothing to stop its icy, late fall course. Stretching far as the eye can see, both to the front and back behind, is a grey and black colored tarmac. It's most distinctive detail, a crazy cockeyed yellow line running schizophrenically down its approximate center. That lonesome road is the only thing that breaks the sheer monotony of the land, yet the whole scene is strangely beautiful in a way indescribable in mortal words. Solitude covers the ground in a thick and silken fog, coupled with the minimal early morning light it gives this quiet land an ethereal, otherworldly feel. Suddenly something breaks this code of silence; far off for now, but heard. It is a far off cry of a sound that comes to ear. It is almost too low to be heard at first, but it builds with nearness. It is a medium rumble that is heard, rhythmic and steady. A smaller engine maybe, one not so much of an overcompensation. It is a motorcycle most assuredly, but even at that, it is not so large for its kind. Yes, there it is indeed, moving fast. One lone spot of head ward motion in a place utterly still. Dark bike, tall rider, and as the man gets closer (for he could be naught else with such facial hair) there comes the impression of dark clothes, dark leather, and dark thoughts. Ever faster does this dark rider move as we watch, ever faster, and ever onward. PART TWO I am the rider. I travel alone down forgotten paths left untended for many, many years ago. I ride here and there, spanning two world, body in one, and mind partaking of another all together. In one world I am tall, strong, and fast. I seem to race across the barren landscape with reckless abandon, free and wild. In this plane of shadowed mind though, I ride with a back crippled from obstacles overcome, as well as crushed from the weight of responsibilities. I ride bent over a pale horse that never tires; racing along a path glowing a malicious fiery red. In this twilight realm I race even faster, trying forever to escape the images of both lovers and enemies destroyed. Here I am forever running; dodging the tears that stream from the faces of those hurt by my hand. Their tears form vast blue rivers that instantly turn to salty fog from the heat, leaving little to be seen ahead or behind. Here I rid in a blind man's darkness. I race through this dimness and fog, trying to overtake the demons that line each side of this wretched road. As I fly by these vile, bent, and dripping creatures, they rip at me, seeking to tear me from my horse of early morning light. Time and time again I nearly fall into their putrid and deadly grips. Somehow, time and again I manage to pull my twisted body back upon my steed, and ride on down this fiery road. Fly so fast I outrun my victims, yet, I can still hear weeping. I ride so fast I outrun the demons, yet I can still feel the pain of their grasp. I still feel as though I'm being pulled down. I find I can't outrun the tears. No matter how much faster I go. They're not supposed to be here, so how do they keep up?!? Why can't I outrun the tears? WHY!?!? Faster I spur my horse on, faster! I must outrun these tears, I must outrace what they me. I cannot face the truth of these tears, for it would assuredly break me down. I have come too far; I cannot let these simple drops of liquid sorrow tear everything away from me. The faster I move, the faster the tears come on, there is no escape from them, and they are blinding me. It is now I realize they are my tears, flowing from my own eyes. There is no one else here to shed tears. As I realize this I am forced to realize that only I roam these lands, for these lands are only in my own mind. PART THREE The Darkness slips away. No Lost victims, no demons seeking to capture, but the tears are still here. They had blinded me, and forced me to pull over. They left me seeming like a psychotic; sobbing at the side of the road, but, the tears were the only way I could let go, and God knows I could never let go willingly, or consciously. The tears were bound by the same odd fates that bind us all. Choice or want never did factor in to the equation “Still†I think out loud as l lean forward onto the handlebars of the bike “how can I forgive myself the wrongs I've done?†I sit there for maybe a half hour or so, debating, conjecturing, deciding. Could I ask for forgiveness? Could I change? Could I make something more from myself? I didn't have any clear and cut answers, and it seemed that no amount of thinking would bring me these answer I so feverishly desired. I had to fashion something that made sense out of it all though, I had to. I came to a conclusion finally, though I will never tell a soul exactly what I learned that day. With that conclusion firmly ensconced in my mind, I once again felt ready to ride, but with no tears this time. They haven't left me forever I'm sure, but for awhile at least. I kick start the bike, roll the throttle a few time for no other reason than I enjoy the sound of the engine, and take flight across these cold, lonely planes once more. I have found who I am, for good or bad, and am comfortable with that knowledge. I have a plan, and now the speed with which I ride has purpose and a destination to justify it. Still I am a lone dark rider, still am I sometimes found with dark thought, but I am also much closer to the eternal wisdom I so desperately seek. That is enough for this rider; for now.