Not going back

When I left, I gave the boats to the silent sea, a final, fatal farewell. I fed the bridges to the fire, and the fire, it feasted, its hot breath a hymn of endings. I wounded the roads, dug them deep, left them bleeding into the belly of the earth. No way back. Now the rivers hold their breath, their beds a bone-dry memory of movement. The bridges are but broken teeth in the jaw of the ravine, whispering warnings to the wind. And the roads, the roads have forgotten their own names, swallowed whole by a patient, powerful green. The sky, a bruised and brooding witness, seals the path with a promise of thunder. No way back. This is what was done; this is what has happened. Burn the boat, kill the doubt--that slithering serpent of second thoughts. No net to catch you, no soft voice to call you home. There is only the making or the breaking. Most people pause. Most people pray. Most people peer into the fog and persuade themselves to wait. But I walked. While they hoped, I walked. While they hesitated, I left. That is why they are caught, forever caught, clawing at the ghosts of gates they left ajar. They try to go back. They always try to go back. But I will not. I cannot. The very thought is a poison, a shame that would splinter the soul. I could not live with the man who turned around. I need no reassurances whispered from other worlds; I hear the rhythm of my own resolve. When I left, I burned the villages, every last village that vied for my return, and in their place, I planted this fire. This fire in my feet. There is no way back. No way back. And it is better this way.