I walk another broken path, across a collection of burning fragments of orange and brick red, towering above my seemingly insignificant head down a pathway of forgotten futures to foretell.

Each tender leaf just falls. A crisp, whispering wind numbs my face, which would be all too great if it doesn't start to turn to a skeleton freeze and harden to a crystal clear.

Turn back time-- to a more pleasant day.
A day with no wailing cyclones of color circling around me,
No almost-black bark barred trees stretching its arms above my head,
No crunching sweet beneath my feet,
No musty fog to lose myself and forget,
No thundering storm cloud lingering not too far behind to finally come down upon me and sneer as I soak,
No looming forest to navigate through this seemingly endless broken path as I keep moving on.

But it can't be done. There's no going back.

I come across a clearing within and lay my head on the damp, wood soaked, earth-scented soil and look up. Look up into the ever-gray eyes of the sky, hiding its greatest secret--the infinite cosmos of possibly.

Oh, what worlds could there be?

Worlds of echoing majesty and light. Worlds that could cut the mold of ordinary life. Worlds where one doesn't need to navigate on their broken paths but where you can fly high above all else till they're insignificant to your gleaming sky-dried eyes.

But no.

In the forest is where I am. Does that really matter though? This is my fantastical world, here, so I should make the best of it.

I must go on. I step up again and continue in the journey. My journey. I walk to the sound of a trickling, icy, stream. I step over knotted root to knotted root. I almost glide on a mirage of gold and crimson.

As twilight whispers into the wind, I take a look around this endless wood of possibility and march forward on my broken path.

I walk,
A thick brush
Paints my way

I cross,
An inked bridge
My feet black

I stop,
The black brush
Paints a crossroad

I sit,
days pass by
As I ponder

I decide,
A blackened path
Walking on ink

I wait,
The brush draws
More diverging paths

I reach,
Holding the brush
Snapping in half

I look,
My body covered
In black ink

I walk,
My body blackened
My path white

Hey
I’m feeling pretty low,
Just feel adrift and stuck and don’t know which choice to make.
So I make no choice essentially,
the coward’s choice.
Looking at the thin strip of red-
barely visible, already fading-
I feel proud?? As though I have been resisting for so long, such an age and I finally managed it. I achieved a mark.
Albeit only a sliver, a skin scratch, one without blood
It gives me hope that there can be more
(A return to the past)
And maybe something deeper, one which will drip.

Surely, though our story is to be found amongst the rooms and walls and shelves  within the library of Babel...

Each letter perfectly paired to the next, and every space in its rightful place.
Periods and commas punctuating every moment exactly as they should.

...That room has yet to be illuminated, The walls therein unseen, It’s shelves have been left unenumerated.
And the book is yet unnamed...

Lost is the certainty,
the written account,
existing within the infinite possibilities of algorithmic and mathematical clout.

...Leaving us to marvel and worry only armed with faith and good reason, through all of life’s seasons and its many unmeasurable miserable doubts.

Sometimes life just pushes you through doors you never even noticed. Doors possessing a different keyhole than the one you have on your person. It was never locked; it stood there resolutely ignoring your breath while you ignore its oak.

You knock on it now.

You have trouble making a rhythm. Your nerves forget that doors could be opened from the outside. You stand there waiting for something to turn the ****, ignoring the fact that you are a man and you have hands and you alone have the strength to open it.

You knock some more.

Sometimes, the door is wrong. You figure out how to open it and you’re greeted by the nightfall. You put your hands in front of you and try to feel the wind. There are no gales in September. The room is a workshop and you are a doctor.

You take two steps backwards.

Life mocks you by throwing you by the same door again, some time after you forgot about the second one. You pushed it by muscle memory and was greeted by the sun. There is a bluebird perched on a willow. It sings for you, doctor. The song is for September.

The workshop at last.

I don’t need your money
I don’t seek your attention
I don’t want the love we had
And I hate the memories we once shared

Being torn apart
Screaming until you have no voice
Crying for help that won’t come
You’re in pain but you feel none

Some call you crazy for the things you try
Some find it admirable not knowing it’s all a lie
When there’s no escape and you know you’ve tried
Take every chance that arise to revive what long ago died.

It’s been quite a journey my friend
but now it’s time for it to end
So please, my stupid heart
Give it up so my life can start

What do I do
Why the hell do I do what I do
I feel like a train hurtling towards another
Yet doing nothing to stop because I love the thrill of going fast