a down trodden traveler,
walks a lonely trail.
each step brings him closer,
to pass or to fail.
Life, what is the point of life? he wonders to himself. Is it a force that drives me, Thus making me powerless to guide my own hands and feet? Do i fool myself with some notion that I am something?
Illusions thrive, when both are right and both are wrong.
There is a force on this path. But does it drive me? No. Instead it mearly waits and beckons. Here it is, come ye here. Only the worthy will make the journey. Though they are tired, weak, and hurting.
Only the swine wallow beside the path and say, No, the path should come to me. This is why eye have hoofs to dig, and snout to root. Eye make my own path, do not mind my mud. My pig pen is lovely.
Am i something? The answer is both yes and no. No one is a master, except the author of the path upon which he walks. The question therefore, is; Is this well rutted path, worthy? Or do i have hooves by which i make a muddy trail?
Am i driven? Yes. But the driver has a lenient hand. Perhaps it is callous from use, perhaps it is limpid unconcern that guides it. The hoofed ones have God be dead. But what do the hands and feet say?
Join me, join me. Let us walk this path together and step where it leads. With each step, we make a decision and each decision becomes a stone.
Let us make a path, not of mud but of strong stone upon which tender foot may travel, free of mud, and the mire which accompanies it.
He lays down his head, so tired from his long battle. Wounds that are deep, seem to suck away his life. He acknowledges the end, feels it’s nearing, yet even now he yields, willing to keep his head up.
And life lives.