Escalator to Nowhere

           

            Where we are is somewhere and where we’re going, I can't say.  Everything from far off looks like a dot and every dot looks to me like the place we’re headed until we come right up close to it and it passes us by.  Then it becomes the place where we were.  I’m on an escalator.  We’re on an escalator.  It feels like we’re standing still at times but we’re actually moving along gradually and quite steadily.  Then it feels like we’re racing forward at times but we’re still just moving along, gradually and steadily.

            I lean against the parallel moving hand rail with my arms crossed and the seat of my pants gently dragging across the inner panel, the only thing that stays still.  It’s my only constant reminder that I’m moving.  I can etch marks onto it and see how quickly they move away from me.  It’s terrifying and comforting all at the same time, being taken on this ride, this automated conveyor belt of bodies and souls.  It’ll all be over one day.  That haunts me.  But we’re all here right now.  I like that.  We are all in this thing together and we are all on a streamlined scenic route to the same place.

            I hear stories about the place we’re going.  They say it’s great.  They say it’s better than we can imagine.  But that’s all we can do is imagine.  No one person has ever returned from there to tell about it.  They say things like, “Don’t make love because we’ll all be made love to when we get there.”  They say, “Don’t enjoy the ride too much or they won’t let you in.”  Nobody can describe the place they’re talking about, but the only thing I can say with conviction is, expectations are high.  Somehow they think we’re going to different places.  But we’re all on the same ride.

            The people here are good company.  For the most part at least.  Some are better off than others but we all have something contribute.  Some play music, some tell stories, some people build things and still others fix things. When it’s cold, we all huddle closely, when times are lean, we pull together, and when things are abundant, we celebrate.  Of course there are those who think they do better to keep to themselves and it’s all the same.  We feel sorry for them and they feel sorry for us.

            As time goes, we continue our ascent into the great open sky and the majesty of clouds that are painted with warm colors and give the illusion of monumental pillows swathed in cotton candy, by contrast are cold and unwelcoming.  The air is harder to breathe and I notice the strain the journey has taken on people.  They are tired and the weathering of many storms has dried the faces and cracked the skin on what has come to be the company I keep. 

            Still I hear the joyful cries of the zealots and they get angry when I disagree with them.  I was nearly thrown overboard just for asking if they remembered where they were before this.  “Since I don’t remember what came before,” I said to them.  “I don’t feel qualified to make assumptions as to what comes next.”  Then they told me they were going to a better place where I wasn’t invited.

            “The top floor is the top floor,” is all I said.  “You can stand on the right, the left, or in the middle.  But there's only one escalator and only one place where it goes.”  The reaction I received was disagreeable to say the least.  But I’ll say this much that I’ve observed: for all the great predictions about what lies at the top floor of this ride, I haven’t noticed anybody racing to get there when they get within grabbing distance of it.

            There was a time, I do admit, when I used to wonder what awaits there at the top.  As a child, you overwhelm yourself with wonder.  What makes the sun rise and why don’t superheroes ever rescue people in my neighborhood.  Then you grow and you come to understand: the sun does not rise, there are no such things as superheroes, and the end result isn’t something to preoccupy yourself with.  The further I go, the more people understand.  It’s the ride.