The Path

I had a bad day.

It started with a root canal that is acting up. That's strange, because they supposedly took out all the nerves. Phantom nerves that feel pain -- what a concept.

Then I had to drive the kid to work because the wife felt sick. Six hours of sleep is simply not enough anymore. I was dragging the whole day.

My dream job has recently become... less dreamy. People are involved, and let's face it, they fuck everything up. If it wasn't for people, the world would be a perfect place.

Alien robots have replaced my Zoloft with a placebo, as part of a controlled experiment for the galactic equivalent of the FDA (this is not a joke).

It's starting to feel personal.

On my way home, I took a back road that passes by some wetland preserves. A few weeks ago, Brax and I hiked down a trail there until some mud puddles obstructed our way. On a whim, I parked the car and started down the trail. I just needed to get out of myself for a second; to feel something other than the slow, stifling wet blanket of civilized suburban decay.

I crossed the mud puddle, and it was wet. My nice pants and crappy sandals were soaked. I kept going, resolved to find the end of the trail once and for all. In my mind, there was a clear demarcation: path's end; a full stop. Perhaps a postcard perfect photo-op of the bay? (I can get that at Fisherman's Wharf). At least a T into the bayside trail.

Instead, the path just faded away. First, there was more mud and water; then, at some point, the trail itself just... petered out. Slow dissolve into non-trailness. A consequence, no doubt, of the uncountable numbers of persons like myself, inclined to follow this path to its end; each of us, independently, learning that our path leads somewhere slightly different; the sum total result being a delta of roads less travelled, fanning out into the muddy virgin swamp.

I could have pushed on, gotten wetter and muddier... but it was time for me to head home.

-dbm