Freedom. To most, it is an idea. An abstract thought that pertains to control. That’s not freedom. That’s independence. Freedom is riding wild over untamed land with no notion any moment exists beyond the one you are living.
There is no Heaven to go to, because we’re in it already. We’re in hell, too. They coexist. Right beside each other. And God is the land.
When you love somebody, you trade souls with them. They get a piece of yours, and you get a piece of theirs. But when your love dies, a little piece of you dies with them.[to Elsa]
What is death? What is this thing we all share? Rabbits, birds, horses, trees, everyone I love and everyone who loves me. Even stars die, and we know absolutely nothing of it.
To import the traditions of the place you fled, the place that failed you, is to condemn the place you seek with the same failures.
There is a moment where your dreams and your memories merge together, and form a perfect world. That is Heaven. And each Heaven is unique. It is the world of you. The land is filled with all you hold dear and the sky is your imagination.
The world doesn’t care if you die. It won’t listen to your screams. If you bleed on the ground, the ground will drink it. It doesn’t care that you’re cut.
I think cities have weakened us, as a species. Mistakes have no consequences there. Step into the road without looking and the carriage merely stops or swerves. The only consequence, an angry driver. But here, there can be no mistakes. Because here doesn’t care. The river doesn’t care if you can swim. The snake doesn’t care how much you love your children, and the wolf has no interest in your dreams. If you fail to beat the current, you will drown. If you get too close, you will be bitten. If you are too weak, you will be eaten.
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I remember the first time I saw it. Tried to find words to describe it, but I couldn’t. Nothing had prepared me, no books, no teachers, not even my parents. I heard a thousand stories but none could describe this place. It must be witnessed to be understood. And yet, I’ve seen it, and understand it even less than before I first cast eyes on this place. Some call it the American Desert, others, the Great Plains. But those phrases were invented by professors at universities surrounded by the illusion of order and the fantasy of right and wrong. To know it, you must walk it. Bleed into its dirt. Drown in its rivers. Then its name becomes clear. It is hell, and there are demons everywhere. But if this is hell, and I’m in it, then I must be a demon too. And I’m already dead.
I felt no fear. It simply became another race. We fear what we don’t know. I knew what would happen. I would win the race or I would be killed. There was comfort in the simplicity of it. Even though I could hear hooves getting closer, I felt no fear.