My feet dance for me, pulling me rushing across the empty expanse of grass. "The quickest path is a straight line," a textbook echoes in my mind. Then I fly, cutting my own path through the thicket of imagination. My path doesn't vary between grass or cement, it twists and turns, carving itself as I run. Then I am there, and I don't look back....most of the time. Once, I happened to turn back and look behind me at the path I had blazed, and I saw the grass springing back into place, as if my giant footstep hadn't affected it in the least. I wondered if this was the effect I had on everything and everyone in my life.
The next day, beaten down, forced to choose between one life and another, I pick my way slowly across the cement, following the beaten path already set out before me, unwilling to make my own just to watch it disappear.
The next day, beaten down, forced to choose between one life and another, I pick my way slowly across the cement, following the beaten path already set out before me, unwilling to make my own just to watch it disappear.
