Path
| Wandering off task, off the path carefully lined up before me, into the metaphorical forest of endless distractions... they do not want me to go here - that is why they made the path, after all, for me to stay on - but I just can't help it. The trees are just so much more dimensional than the path. So much more interesting. | ||
—Ellemerr | ||
The path. It is simple enough, though it branches and curves and comes back to itself. It is outlined and it is distinct and it is there. Simple. It is what the faceless desire. "Go here," they say, gesturing to the worn-down stones and rutted ground. "It is all laid out; go here."
They wear no masks, these faceless entities, for even their very faces have worn off over the many long years of following the paths, straight, squiggly, roundabout, but all paths, and all the same, for they do not wander. They dare not wander, and they do not know what lies beyond the border of trees and darkened shadows, and I feel, sometimes, that they are afraid. I toe the line, press the gather of my tippy-toes into the grassy edge and I wonder. What is there? What are these shrouded giants looming out of the mist, silhouettes of metaphors, trees, ferns... the shadows loom ever closer...
"No," they say. "Don't go there."
And suddenly I find myself stepping back. Always stepping back. Whether they are afraid or not, even if they are indeed, and there is no way to tell without masks, have no idea what they're feeling when they won't put on masks, one thing is certain. I am.
I remain on the path.