So I take a different path, different than I planned, different than I wanted. Neither path particularly easy, but the one from which I lost my way felt warmer, with pleasant scenery and the occasional comfortable place to rest. I miss that path, took it for granted.
Travel is never easy for we who travel, but it’s all we really know. It’s not in us to stop, we seek something unique to ourselves and cannot be at peace until we find it. Some of us wander forever, never to find that path that leads home, to that thing we need.
The paths, you see, are tricky, clever and ever-changing. They revel under the footfalls of a lost travelers. Without the traveler, a path has no purpose, they know it and they fear it. So they shift and change, distract us with shiny things when they sense we’re weak. They know us, and they hate us. They hate us, because they need us. We know this, but we need them.
I lost my way in an opiate fog, all turned around and glad to be so. I drank from a river of apple brandy, all my thoughts burned in liquor. It happened so quickly, what felt like an instant.
I wander now, nothing familiar, under a cold and indifferent night sky. Tired and weary, lost and lonely. The path is happy to hear my sorrows, a sadistic lover who keeps me and despises me.1 comment
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