Names

I want a name for the view over the back of my shoulder, of this path I've already walked upon, fell down upon, cried upon and smiled upon. I want a name for the ground beneath my very feet even now holding me steady, eternally still, secure, loyal, helping me to stay upright even as it keeps me to the ground. Because you can't have roots and wings at the same time.
I want a name for the horizon stretching lazily our before my eyes, one that yet seems far away and untouchable, even thoug I try to believe what everybody tells me; that I only have to keep walking and eventually I'll get there. Then you have people who insist the whole point of walking is the journey and not the destination. Because the journey is a process and the destination is a place that with the right kind of determination you can continuously move further away from yourself - restless destinations that will somehow tire your body and drain your emotions.
I want a name for the people and their acts, to which I bear solitary witness every day because at times it feels as though I am the only one who can be bothered enough to watch another instead of focusing straight ahead at the prize everyone seems to be chasing. But because the sun's out too hot we are running on indoor treadmills and not realizing that even this slight human simulation reduces how human we are; how many scars will have kissed our skin and maybe left a mark there at the end of our roads.
I want a name for the things I pass by like flotsam on yet another unidentifiable river, whose name nobody but those above it all knows. Because I never really touch the permanent banks of these people crowding these stalls, their spirits forced to live so far beneath the radar that even the underground seems above it. And much as I like to pretend that the collars of waste that will someday wash up on these shores will include myself in their number, I also want to roam freely. I want to be taken in somewhere that will release me enough to hurt myself, but accept me again when I come crawling home bleeding from wounds to my body and my heart. And maybe that's selfish but after years of living on this Earth and feeling my fellow people I want to be the one people will tend to and care about. Just like the proud workaholic who comes home, removes her ridiculous high heels and runs crying into the arms of an understanding soulmate who will let her stain his shirt with the tears of her labor. And he will rock her to sleep that night just as her mother did before, because someday we will alll return to our beginnings. We will all die and we will all be born. We will name things for ourselves; we will be selfish and self-centred and we will take but we will also give. We may or may not question the kinds of gifts we are blessed with daily but we will know the names of our true selves when we run hurt into the arms of someone who cares, enough.