Speed increases as I hurtle my way downwards towards my incipient concussion with some as-yet-unseen ground. At least, I assume there will be something hard below me to impact. This is a mental flight: destination, oblivion, or so I hope.
However, as this is Hell, I really need to learn to quit my old habit of hoping. It does me no real good; the only way to finish the process is to quit cold turkey, for in Hell hopes are never realized: that’s on the charter.
The litany of ringtones is becoming background noise, to which I pay no heed now. The passing faces are a blur: I recognize no one. Frustration is a grayness I hardly notice.
Life in Hell speeds by as I descend, hoping to find haven, in lieu of Heaven, in a gentle smothering blackout.
I have got to quit hoping. It’s the cruelest thing. Temptations are a specialty of the house. So far they keep finding better ways to refine and clarify my dulled senses of pain and remorse. They punish well, just to enjoy the agony.
And still, I cannot help but run.