Picking Paths

Why is the choice so difficult?

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.