Picking Paths

If only the meaning was known.


The lack of passion. The swift and intense sickening. The novelty that is so quickly worn.


The paths, all well-traveled, still open. I quietly sneak onto each, standing at the crossing with all options open. I often pick an unlikely path, but the trail ends quickly, and I find myself back where I started, in my endless loop of plagued existence. I am forced to spend an eternity of failure in picking paths. I never thought subsistence could be so insistent.


The undergrowth that has forever blocked my vision is blown, and as it is strewn, it is revealed: another path. It is new terrain, never traveled by human feet. I feel myself walking, drawn to explore yet another path. However, that familiar pit feel sets in, and I want nothing more than to vacate into my own longing. And once again, I fear it.


The lack of passion. The swift and intense sickening. The novelty that is so quickly worn.


If only the meaning was known.