A Road

Dark, solid and unforgiving was the road that plowed through the lonely stretches of land outside of a small city hardly worth naming. Though nothing special in and of itself, this road holds far more value than what one would perceive. Although this road is no better at its job than any other road that passes any neighboring town, or any other road in the country for that matter. However, by fulfilling the simple duty of existing as a hard mixture of crude oil and gravel, called concrete asphalt.

The mere fact that the road existed served every purpose that I could ever need. It provided a stable path on which I could travel. Specifically my travel was being done by running, but that is neither here nor there. Running could be considered something of a formality. The real relationship existed between both of my feet, the soles of my shoes and the surface beneath them.

There was nothing particularly intriguing about the scenery other than that it kept changing. The one thing that remained constant was the surface between the earth and my unending steps. A dark black, the road was occasionally patched in areas where potholes, dents and other lesions must have randomly occurred, marring the otherwise untainted stretch of asphalt. The yellow line on the side of the road served as a pencil line drawn across a map and my feet never passed too far away from its constant guidance. A gritty yellow, with small chunks of rock, dirt and other miscellaneous garbage littered haphazardly over its surface stood in stark contrast with the ebony shade that it gracefully traced over like a ribbon.

And yet, all the minute details of the road itself did not divulge from its ultimate purpose. And perhaps that ultimate purpose was not much different than the purpose of the body that traversed it.