Seemingly Equal Paths - Sept. 18th


I am trying to make my way through this winding overgrown path. It’s tight. The thorns of the bushes catch on my clothes and tug at my skin. It’s day time, but heavily overcast and dreary. Everything is damp and saturated. A blue-grey hangs in the air, and the wood around me is hazed with a cool-green tint.

Unable to recall how I arrived on this path, I continue onward. I don’t know what else to do. The moist soil below my boots is firm but occasionally gives in a greasy slip, where the grass has been a worn bare. The path itself winds and bends as a river does. It is seemingly trying to find the least resistance. The undergrowth surrounding me is so dense that even should I want to, I could not leave the path. I get the sense that I might be traveling in a circular loop, perhaps back to where this all began. That is the only comfort I can find at this moment. That maybe I’ll arrive back at where I started.

As I walk, I hear a voice. A voice that I can’t pin to any being that I am familiar with. I hesitate, pausing in my progress to listen more intently. But as I arrest my movement, everything around grows silent, including the voice. I linger as long as I comfortably can. I am hoping that it shall return. But alas, it does not. I begin my movement again; the voice comes back. I cannot make out, nor understand it. It is soft and low. Suggestive and inviting, but indistinguishable in content. I pause, it subsides. I move, and it flutters in my ears.

Walking on, I speak. I ask the standard questions. I try to coax just a fragment of gleanable information from the voice. But nothing. It continues to discourse to me in hushed tones. These moments are unsettling.

As I come to resign myself to taking no knowledge from the voice, a second voice becomes audible. Just as soft, just as imperceptible. Again, I pause, and yet so does it. I move and listen. This voice, as with the first, is not one of recognition. I have no recollection of having heard it before.

After flitting minutes pass, I arrive at a small intersection. Each path is holding the same weight and distinction of importance — neither showing or suggesting that one is of more significance than the other. I look patiently, waiting for a tinge of knowledge as to which path I should take. As I stare into the middle distance, a sense washes over me. I can not say how I know, but each voice is a path. And I must choose. I don’t know what the choices might be, but I know to which way each voice belongs.

I call out asking for a clue, a suggestion as to what choice I am making. And I receive nothing in return. It seems in all appearances that I am to sort this one for myself. I study each path: the contours, the direction. I try to look further down the path to see which way it may bend and twist. I look for identifying markers such as unique trees or past footsteps left in the soft soil. I am rewarded with no additional info. This goes on for a markedly long period. I consider going down one of the paths a short distance, but what if I can’t return?

The voices continue their conversation with me. A spiritual monologue if you will. Never wavering in their message, but never being clear to provide insight. Frustration comes over me in waves. And then I awake, and I instinctually know which path I am intended to take.