In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself, in a dark wood, where the direct way was lost. It is a hard thing to speak of, how wild, harsh and impenetrable that wood was, so that thinking of it recreates the fear. It is scarcely less bitter than death: but, in order to tell of the good that I found there, I must tell of the other things I saw there.
A reddit search of “lost my way” reveals the multivarious paths which we are on, and which we lose. We move linearly, like time; I often find I want to move laterally, to slide into another life, or more lately, to slide off of this like just a bit. To take it to another city, to change my body, to renarrate my history into a new journey.
How is it that we come to be so lost? I thought I had a way, and was stunned to encounter forces pushing me off of it. Perhaps now that I’m prepared I would not let myself be so pushed, but here I am, in the brush. My path was fresh enough that it was easy to lose, and vegetation grows back over it, such that there is only woods. A pleasant wood, in places, but nevertheless living in the woods won’t do. How do I trek along again? How do I clear out this brush?