A Prose With No Direction

an asphalt road

I gaze at my reflection, she of the past looking at me with a darkened gleam in her eyes. 

I stare through the mirror, watching as she of the past stands on the middle of an asphalt road, a road that's cold underneath her calloused feet and a road that seems to never end. 

She looks at me with a darkened gleam in her eyes, before her dark, wet hair spins and begins running towards the endless road of asphalt. 

I blink my eyes, and when reopened, I find myself in that same road of asphalt, watching she of the past running and running and running down the endless road of asphalt, her destination nonexistent. Nothing at all stands on either side of the road; it's all just a road of asphalt with dark nimbus clouds staring down at us. 

Legs then start running towards she of the past, mouth unknowingly chasing her with words. 

"Hey!" Mouth calls, as legs, small enough to be considered one of a midget's, races to catch up to her.

At first, she of the past sprints like she of the past had never before, increasing our distance thirty yards a second. She runs and runs and runs so fast, her small figure seeming like a dot, sprinting as if someone's about to get her.

Or catch up to her.

"Hey!" Mouth keeps calling and legs still running. 

At some point, she of the past starts to slow down, and I once again see her small figure. She's still so far away from me, but not as far as she was before.

Soon she begins running twenty yards a second, then ten yards a second, then five yards a second, then one yard a second, before finally running twenty steps a second. Small legs now begin to run faster than she of the past until legs catch up to hers, she of the past's legs beginning to tire and stop their running.

"Hey," mouth pants, torso leaning over and palms placed on knees as lungs gasp for air. 

There is nothing around us.

Nothing but the asphalt road and the grey skies above.

"Hey," mouth says again. But she of the past does not turn to me. She just stares down at the endless road.

She then keeps running.

But before she runs away, I grab her wrist.

She spins to face me, eyes wide like the asphalt road. She doesn't flinch at my sudden touch—not yet anyway. She, instead, just stares at me with confused yet hurried eyes, mouth forming words that voice box can't preach. 

"Why are you running?" Mouth asks.

Her forming of words stop, neck twisting to look down at the road in front of her. 

"Why are you running?" Mouth repeats.

She of the past points towards the nothing that lays at the end of the endless asphalt road. 

There, she tells me, although no words are spoken. There.

"Where is there?" Mouth persists. 

There, she points.

"There is nothing," mouth replies. "There's nothing at the end of the road. Since there is no end to this road."

She of the past untwists her neck, eyes gleaming with a darkness that quickly clouds it. 

I need to keep running, she tells me.

Eyebrows knit themselves as mouth says, "Why?"

She of the past just looks at me. 

They told me to always keep running, she replies. They tell me to be faster. They tell me to be farther. They tell me to reach for things they know I can easily reach.