Path

The path is cracked and weathered. The sides have broken into a jagged rubble. Grass and weeds are pushing up between the cracks. Every second tree is too close, with roots pushing and deforming it into a strange irregular topology.

Still, it’s clearly a path. It comes from somewhere and goes somewhere else. Maybe there is the odd loop or detour along the way, but it certainly covers a long walk. Too far to walk, and here I am walking it.

I’ve been walking along time I guess. So far that I forget the parts from long ago. Every now and then though, a bend or a pothole floods memories of the path behind me.

It winds through the worst parts of the city, squeezed out of mind behind the industrial estates. Other parts through quiet suburban streets where everything is clean and flat. Kids don’t play there, it’s frowned on.

Sometimes I think the path is me. I feel like the city loves me like it loves the path. It ignores it, or forces it to suit it’s dogmas. Who said it had to run straight? Paths like to wind, they like to meander.

One day it will break free of the ground or take the ground with it, but the city will leave it be. Its true nature will shine, as it winds its way to infinity.