MY DATE WITH DESTINY

It's OK to die trying.

The needle hides in a haystack for a reason. It doesn’t wish to be found, so it’s not easy to do so—regardless of how hard I search—be it looking for needles playing hide and seek, basic necessities, or high-flying desires. I've plundered many a good haystack in my day, with middling results during these meandering meadow sojourns of discovery and connection.

I've circled the globe chasing fruit-striped rainbows. I still believe there is a pot of gold awaiting me. Until now, it's been 99% pyrite. Occasionally, I uncover a glowing shard to keep me drooling and greed-struck for that shimmering mother lode that awaits pocketing. This elusive treasure's just below the rippling scalp of my ankle-deep and personal creek. I know it.

I've never seen a fish riding a bicycle.

Or a unicorn, at least up close.

I thought for a fleeting moment I had cornered a leprechaun, but it was some guy named Norman, a groggy sawed-off fella slumped against the filthy wall of O’Leary’s Pub. It was Saint Patrick’s Day, so he looked the part, though he didn't have much fight left in his tiny fists.

I've searched high and low for Sasquatch, but I can barely see the forest for the trees. The same is true for the Loch Ness monster and saucer-eyed space aliens. Hell, I've never found a four-leaf clover, and I've spent a reasonable amount of time face-planted in the colluding grass. But my luck's gotta change someday; that's how I see it.

We reap what we sow, and I'm planting hope.

Tomorrow, I'm off for the Gobi Desert, a blanket of sand a thousand miles long. I'm searching for an oasis, a special one. One long, thirst-quenching sip is all that I seek.

Wish me a provident and protected expedition, please.

I am too stubborn, some would say dumb, to quit.