Somewhere over life’s obstacles, lays a plain of grass greener than emeralds and flowers brighter than the sun itself. Yet, as we pass through the obstacles, we get tangled, trip, and fall, and some of those who are unfortunate never come back up. Yet, some of those who are strong will persevere, just to run into another obstacle. And yet again, he shall get tangled, trip, and fall, with a risk of never standing back up. Yet, he stands again. His legs scream at him, begging him to rest, and sleep. But he never closes his eyes, not even to blink. Because when he closes his eyes, the green grass and the bright flowers fade away, like a dream, becoming harder and harder to recollect, like water in the grasp of a palm, slowly dripping away, until the palm turns dry. So yet again, he does not close his eyes and he stands up and keeps running. Obstacles, one after the other, scrape him and bruise him and crack his bones and burn his eyes, but he never stops running, and he never closes his eyes. Even when the last drop of energy within him expires, he turns into a machine. He keeps running, and keeps getting tangled, and tripping, and falling, yet he never stops running and he never closes his eyes. The more he runs, the more his ankle twists, the more his blisters throb, and yet the bigger his eyes open, as the beam from the flowers and the dazzle from the grass penetrate the plaque between his eyebrows, and penetrate the iris, inspiring a new spirit, a feeling mixed between the thrilling uncertainty of youth and the exhilarating wisdom of aged experience. His blood soaked knees begin to dry, emitting a wine colored glow that itches to feel the coolness of the honey dripping from the daisies. His torn and withered face brightens for a chance to see the dazzle of the turquoise grass and smell the aroma of the softest rose and taste the sugar of the sweetest dew, a chance that hangs like a root sticking out at the top of the well, teasing you to grab. The boy keeps running, ignoring the cracks and the snaps of his knees, knowing the destiny is near. The fragrance can be smelt, the dew can be tasted, the buzz can be heard, the sight can be seen. The mixture is overwhelming, setting off fireworks in the intertwined network of neurons in the deepest section of his cerebral cortex. He takes one more step, and collapses onto the delicate bed of blossoms, under the delicate singing of birds on delicate branches that give off delicate creaks as the wind blows its delicate force onto the delicate leaves. The boy finally lets his knees rest and his eyes close, for the first time in decades.