Two Hours

At the halfway mark comes the sun, shining through. Then back to the rain.

The music fades in and out with the swells, parts missing, parts brought out from the depths. Skipping, skipping, skipping through old memories and new ideas.

It's a long path, and the mind likes to wander. The past, the future, is all laid open as the mountains to the clouds. Condensation collects on the thin glass, and it's all hard to comprehend. The dozens of histories, hundreds of actions, thousands of words. They all get mixed into a jumble of everything, and nothing.

It's a winding path, and it's easy to get lost. A couple of words can mean dozens of different things, and suddenly they're all possible. Paranoia sets in the mist. A sideways glance darts by showing a second of annoyance, and it's gone. But that means nothing, and everything. A touch is forgotten, a word remembered forever, an expression a vague memory.

It's a dead end path, and it's either turn back or trek forward into the unknown. The path back is too familiar to be remembered. Seconds move by slipping through the grasp of memory, until you've found a new way to go. But what if you don't? The trek forward is too new and invigorating to be forgotten, and yet too detailed to be recalled. The wrong words are remembered, the right ones locked away in a labyrinth. But the seconds are grasped, and rewards may await.

It's a path that has no end. It's a path that has no beginning and few destinations. It's a path you must travel alone, and yet not alone. You just put one foot in front of the other and hope you don't confuse another's path for your own.

It's a painful path. You'll emerge with scars and bruises. It's a rewarding path. You'll emerge a changed person, more knowledgeable and hopefully happier from the journey.

There is no path.