Even when the path I walk upon is exactly what I’ve been searching for; one which can open into a wide road filled with signs leading the way, I still find a reason to stop dead in my tracks. I am somehow attracted to trails surrounded by quick sand and land mines. They never end up killing me, just leave a few wounds that can make a person squint in disgust.
Even if the rough soles of my converse step onto a path of soft silk with fields of open space and hazy pink skies, nothing will seem real. I end up looking around and around; over the hills and under rocks, sometimes forcefully stubbing myself on the pines of an evergreen as an excuse to run the other way. Maybe rip out the begonias to dissect their roots for something, anything to make me think this is too good to be true.
And as I play the world’s worst treasure hunt, I find myself lost again. I end up straying too far from the path and lose my sense of direction. Lonely, lost and looking for a new path. One of decency and comfort, but nothing better than what I think I deserve.
The only problem is,
Being lost is starting to feel more comforting than following a path.