Letting go of an old Raft

I'm desperately in love with nothing. You know that feeling when you have a burn in your chest but its for no one or no thing, it's just there and it's inexplicable? Insolvable? That's it. A burn for some imagined city of riches I once believed in. The El Dorado of everything, somewhere just over the next ridge, around the next bend. How long can I drag this raft through the dry bed..

Once upon a time I was riding on the river, smoothly on my raft, anticipating obstacles and dashing wave trains joyfully. It was a psychological gold mine having nothing to do with success or riches, but a simple and profound state of mind. Then I saw a tributary gouging some darker canyon to the north, and like a curious dog I steered right when everyone else went left, thinking it a good idea to venture the length less traveled. As the afternoon wore into dusk, the waters slowly receded and shadowy rocks became more pronounced. More than once I found myself jammed between waterways, wading through the gravel, lifting my raft overhead, still keeping on. I believed in some unknown god, some city of riches at the end of the river, like a little Cortez, I'd found the be-all, end-all of ravines that would lead me to salvation

Soon night took me. Setting down the raft all I could do was wait and look at the stars. Try to love my surroundings for what they were, knowing deep down that I'm lost and my raft is now useless. Waiting for daybreak, sleeping when I could. Then the horizon hinted rose, a sweep of cool air danced through the valley, somewhere a bird chirped, and finally the sun sparked on my eastern horizon. Daylight had returned, as had hope. As the 6am hour passed, then 7, 8, there was still no release of water in the river bed. It stayed dry, because the season was over. And I'd had my one chance to see where this went. With little gumption, I picked up my finely-carved raft and continued down the dried up rocky gully in the rising morning.
Soon I was exhausted.. old intentions and old ideals still pushing me on but body holding back, aided by a growing sense of doubt that I'd come the wrong way.. stubbornness fighting ambition. Forward pushing, backward pulling. NO! I refuse to turn back. This has to lead somewhere, some city of gold.

Eventually it was clear to me. This riverbed leads only to a dead end.

Stranded in the twigs, rocks, leaves, the early afternoon with an overgrown riverbed, thorny and thistled ahead, I have to make a choice. It's clear that even the best raft-builders can folly-up. One builds a damn fine raft, but the matter of picking it's perfect river is just as crucial.

So I must make a choice.

The river flows from high to low. East to west. There's a mountain to my left, an impassable gully ahead, an impossible cliff to my right and from whence I came behind. So many options, and endless amounts of freedom to choose.Which way do I take? down the bed? over the mountain? scale the cliff?
The choice is there.

Adios for now

PS - this has nothing to do with leaving Los Angeles, Jason. :)