Casey Gilfillan

The winding hand propels forth, a curiosity that is tethered to my ambition. It guides without a path, pulls me along willfully. I strive, but for what? I strive to excel, to succeed, to dominate, to capitalize, to seize, to what end? These means of purpose, like blind horses whipped to a steady gallop, unsure of where they are going, or when they might be allowed to stop.

And so they never stop, the hand always reaching for more and the mouth hungry, accepting. The phantom hosts of my advance do not stall, but hasten the pace at proximity to the depth. It is that isolated gap, between the mounted ridge and the wall of sandstone, that I find myself drawn to. The speed intensifies, I push through and crawl my way forward, reaching and eventually slipping into the darkness of the space. Immersed in the opacity of nothing shrouded by the world above, the inching desire finally decapitates. No more pulling, reaching, with an unknowable fervency.

When people ask me what the goal of my life is, I return to this liminal space.