If everyday I wrote something down; a bit of poetry, a shred of story: would they one day blend into fiction? They'd become my story, but would it be worth reading? To yearn and long for adventure but be frightened and terrified of it as well. Would it somehow balance out? Walking the brightly lit road at night is safer, yes. But when I reached the end and looked back, would I say it had been worth it? Would the safe road ensure I would be able to look back and be worth it on that principle alone? Or would I look back through the glowing orange light with regret and remorse, wanting to have seen and felt, learned and experienced more than the safe road and promised future can give me?
No comments:
Post a Comment