Soon enough, the journey takes us here: a limbo of an intersection where the signs
are too faint to read and the view in each direction is indistinguishable
from another. It is so quiet we can hear the rise and fall of our own lungs,
and yet it is this very silence that topples our resolve. We'd rather run back
to the noise of where we came from than linger at the fork bending toward an
uncertain and inevitable future, but of course, that's door's already locked behind us.
So this is where we find ourselves, wobbly and wistful, our heads a wasp's nest of What-ifs,
the choices heavy with question marks and every answer split in two. It's a gift, then,
our legs are bound at the seams, the bones of us held together in a single body. We can't
be everywhere at once, ever. We can only stand where we are, where it matters.