Like Dante, like Frost, I have found myself in a place where the roads diverge.
I never imagined it would be like this.
There’s a dream at the end of the road and some worldly forces that I cannot see will, in their own good time, set the roads straight and guide me to whichever is the right one.
The right one for the place and the time for the moment in which the earth turns.
To some degree, all are somewhat travelled. To quite a different degree, all are untrod.
What would you do if you weren’t afraid?
The question brought me to tears. One road was suddenly harder to see.
How do you see yourself in ten years’ time?
Depending on the day, I may or may not know. That’s a lie. I know. I know.
There’s a dream along each road, and there many are when I stop to count, but I cannot knit them together into the picture that fills my mind when I can’t sleep.
Maybe the dreams are wrong or misunderstood or misinterpreted.
And maybe the roads that I see are not the roads I need to see.
Can you hear the universe when it speaks?
Whyte says these are questions that have no right to go away.
My questions swirl. Ebb, flow.
Some days, sunshine. Some days, rain.
Dark self-doubt and hello, demons.
There’s a dream out there waiting to be shaped, molded, given a life and a home and a place to rest.
There’s a dream out there to be discovered, explored, cherished.
I have found myself in a place where the roads diverge
and a map is nowhere to be seen.