Oh, yeaaaah! No more PT!
I'm not really a poem-y literary person; in fact until now, I'd only ever seen the first stanza(?) of this, and I read it in a Stephen King novel (that last part's a bit bleak, huh?). But it struck me so much that I copied it out and clipped it in my day planner, and have transferred it from month to month, from year to year, for almost 10 years now.
PursuitEach thing I do I rush through so I can do something else. In such a way do the days pass - a blend of stock car racing and the never ending building of a gothic cathedral. Through the windows of my speeding car, I see all that I love falling away: books unread, jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why? What treasure do I expect in my future? Rather it is the confusion of childhood loping behind me, the chaos in the mind, the failure chipping away at each success. Glancing over my shoulder I see its shape and so move forward, as someone in the woods at night might hear the sound of approaching feet and stop to listen, then, instead of silence he hears some creature trying to be silent. What else can he do but run? Rushing blindly down the path, stumbling, struck in the face by sticks; the other ever closer, yet not really hurrying or out of breath, teasing its kill. -Stephen Dobyns