Like a buffalo stampede, each charging forward on its own trajectory away from a spook, none exactly certain where they’re going or what exactly they’re running from – But still they run, propelled by the madness of it all. I slow down, and slow them down, deliberately obtrusive. In their gaze I see desperation, terror, longing, but aimlessness – maybe I’m projecting? So I ask, I listen – there’s no insight, just well rehearsed reactions. Am I a threat? I am no threat. In fact, I’m actively none-threatening. This car, these clothes, this tone, these hands, my frequent absence, don’t confuse that all with arrogant self-righteousness. I embody a non-threatening posture with one intent: to make room for the stampede. Perhaps, if they don’t see me, they’ll just run by and I can cower in this corner. They’ll pity me, and are emboldened. Perhaps, one day I too will run. When I’ve seen the spook, and have resolved to charge. But to run is to be compelled…I’m still wandering about. I know not what I seek. Certainly not happiness, and maybe not knowledge. It’s that voice. That restless murder clawing around my guts, demanding that I yearn, but my yearning falls short of that which commands my heart.