A Forest Without Promise.

There was a time when her eyes truly sparkled. No matter how late or early she woke, she could smile and breathe and live as vibrantly as anyone possibly could.

Now, in an hour of familiarity, she is a stranger. Her legs are heavy. Her soul is heavy.

And yes, the passing cars shine their lights as brightly as anyone would when traveling a road as lonely as this one. It is late, but each car must be going somewhere. She does not care if the destinations hold anticipation or dread for the drivers. Any purpose at all will suffice, as far as she is concerned. So long as she, too, has one.

(She doesn't.)

The lights are gone, for now. She looks left. Right. Down. Up. A blinking star... an airplane.

Which way is the way?

If I seek to find myself again, then certainly the path will not come easy. It will not be paved, but muddied. Not painted, but cracked.

And that's okay.

(But it sucks. A lot.)

She takes a step back. She turns around. The forest behind her is endless, promise-less, pointless.

This uncertainty, this directionless journey-- this is life, and this is what she seeks.