The Point

We were all cowboys. Ranching, rodeo riding, racing the wastes. Always on the move, always on the verge. Never more than a whim to motivate us. Wind blowing south, then that’s where the herd of cattle’s headed. Some of us lost what was dear, others lost so much more. But the skimming of vast planes never halted. We were on the move. We were on the beat. We were racing towards a sunset. Never mind which one. They all look alike. Breaking point is not when your steed lies broken at your feet. It’s not when you’ve forgotten the names of those lost. It’s not when you think it’s all over. Breaking point is that moment of surprise when you draw your last breath. Then you think: “Was it worth it?” Well, was it?