“Many roads diverged in the yellow wood, Shall he take the weathered one, as the mellow would? Or burst behind the mob, as the callow would? Cautious and dwelling, the fellow stood.”
I stand at a crossroad. No, it’s a junction. It is a spray of paths that lie before me, splitting into a hundred directions in front of me; each pulling me tenaciously. From my feet springs a new path, a new possibility at every second thought. I hold on, barely , like a charioteer trying to keep a chariot drawn by a hundred horses in shape and direction. But I cannot linger, I cannot halt. The past is an abyss, a black hole sucking through, getting stronger at every passing second. All I have is this moment, the present. And I have to choose.
. . .
Read more at: The Best Of Halfway To Asphodel: 2015-2017!