Two roads in a yellow wood
Everything changes. The seasons turn, old friends disappear, loved ones move into different galaxies of connection, and we are powerless to stop any of it.
The roads diverge and the bright yellow wood surrounds us.
We continue down the path that is laid out at our feet, stretching to the horizon of our field of view, and we do so with trepidation and cynicism.
It's been a weird few months. Sometimes, I don't know where to turn and I don't exactly know what I should be doing - I just get good at faking it and making people believe that I know what I'm doing.
Purpose is a hard thing to decipher. It looks different for every human being. We cannot look into the life of another, even though we want to and believe that we could actually steer someone else's ship.
The seas are rough enough for one captain.
For me, writing is the anchor. The story is my digital canvas and words are glossy, zillion-colour paint.
Some days, in the struggle to connect and find meaning in the concrete jungle core, I'd like to have a cabin near the water.
Nothing special - just a shack with a stove, a window, a bed and a table inside. I could let the hoo of the loons lull me into a deep autumn slumber, and I could see my breath while I blow out the lantern of time and business.
Nature simplifies everything and reminds us that we are not alone.
I'm thankful for every fellow journeyer I've come across on the rugged road of this life.
We don't know what part any of us will play in the plot lines of the characters around us - but if we stay true to the depths of who we are, and look up when we can, an impact can't help but be made.
But the ones that are special - the ones that skip wistfully like shiny, flat stones across the waters of our memories - are the ones that leave the biggest ripples in our souls.
And though I'm sad to sometimes lose you - and disheartened to sometimes claw at the memory bank we've created together - you are a brilliant sunset across the meadow of my mind.
You know who you are. I love you all.
