We walk down one of many paths, snaked out in front of us in infinite branches. We choose at random; there is not a path that is preferred when you cannot see what the end of the path brings.

You and I wear the same shoes. Your steps are not much different than mine. You only started at a different place, and pointed your toes in a different angle than mine. The time in which we intersected were the most enjoyable steps I have ever taken.

When you diverged from the same path as I, I was torn into pieces. My weary feet tread along the path that I must take. I wonder, if we turn our feet, a bit at a time, if our paths will ever intersect again. Or if that road is overgrown.