Muse like I'm on Booze.

I see the road ahead. a black tarred road stained with lines pristine and white, meant to guide us, straight as an arrow. Like a stained parchment of immense proportion, it stretched as far as the eye could see. No. I exaggerate. It stretched a mile. to a grass patch. No more, no less. The end, I thought. That was it, wasn't it? an end. A grassy knoll where everyone would, with the white rectangular guidings, reach? I remembered the saying I have long heard, and experienced many times through my own eyes. The grass is always greener on the other side they say.That wrenching feeling in the gut when you see yourself on this patch, and how it yellows before your eyes in comparison to that patch across the ravine.

But this grass knoll has no patch to compare itself too. Not yet. Not till you reach it. So I dropped the deck that progressively got heavier with each step I took. It yearned to be free. I dropped it, and it rolled, waiting, like a stallion awaits its rider. And I got on.

It was a ritualistic, blind road that is premade in an attempt to make us think we are going where we all should be. I swerved to the left when I saw a no entry sign leading to another road.That grass patch yonder would never feel my soles.