[I’ve had this for years. I don’t know where it came from. It’s never made complete sense to me, but it came out in one brief but continuous episode of typing.]
Once upon a time when grasses were alive and cars were still a dream, when paths traveled where they liked and answered only to their souls and the Great Mother Earth, when footpaths learned from their tutors the streams and rivers, intersecting, intertwining arm in arm and there was peace, in this time Man had a soul alive and could speak with the earth. Paths meandered with the wind in a scuff of fluttering leaves fluid as the forest itself, winding, rolling, tickling and teasing the living waters as they went. In this time Man had an ear to hear the Earth’s soft whisper and answer.
But the heart of Man was corrupt, His lusts too quickened for paths and meandering and breezes. Industry without patience, His hands longed to fix all things in place with stakes and signposts: “Go here. Or there. And nowhere else.” Man imagined pumping engines and smoke and paths were crushed by cruel wheels; roads became hard and black like the soul of Man.
Now as you walk in the moonlight, if the wind allows it, if the Great Mother is kind, you can hear the path’s lament, “I am sorry my friend. I may not take you where you need. I can only take you where I do.”