Path

Tracing a path with your eyes, your fingers, your thoughts. Nothing else matters. The only thing in the world at the time is the pattern before you. Winding turns, curves, vines following their own path. That's all there is. The lines. Everything going a given way, and the rest falling away, leaving nothing behind.

Shards of glass, strands of rope, drops of blood, and abandoned tears. All surround the path winding its way through life. Flowers wilt, leaves fall, color fades, and the world disappears after a while. But the path remains. The path of time is the one consistency in all the changing chaos that is life.

The bitter wind blows on, vanquishing everything from existence. Yet every time, the path is not removed. And you sit there century after century, eternity after eternity, watching it go by. You trace it in your mind and follow it with your understanding. Until all time and space has fallen away, leaving nothing behind it. Nothing but silence and solitude, winding its lonely way along this path.