Meander if you Want to Get to Town

The path is beautiful. Filled with lush breezes and sweet smells. Shade from selfless trees, blanketing in calming shadows. Light lapping at the silhouette of traced leaves on the rugged pathway, attempting to gift it shape, but it is futile. Those who tread so painfully on the path, those who wear it as they wear their badges of success, have not the time to experience it. They don’t allow themselves to bask in the freedom of the journey, to be enlightened by the simple tragedy of a wilted leaf making its final descent from the branch, for this is a dangerous mirror to a place they dare not face. So they persist for fear of stopping. They often stumble upon towns of plentiful delights; humble chimneys complete with careless smoke, warm oak steeples gently emptying royal bell tolls, a sympathetic smile from an affectionate passerby, but none of this is savoured. They relish in possible further achievement, they are not satisfied. Their path is woefully incomplete. With a fire, they hurry out of town, past the restless creek and through the thicket of brambles until they are worn. Until they are forced to stop. They have pioneered the discovery of many towns, but, always hungry for more, it is not a town which they are forced to rest in; it is on the tired path, lifeless and worn by their own doing, that which they must now rest on. It is only when they are forced to look back, to see what they have taken for granted, that they truly realize what they have lost in this fruitless endeavour. They mourn the fragile flower they have so carelessly trodden upon, sympathize with the pebbles beaten deep into the soft, loamy soil by their needlessly hasty steps, and finally, mimic the wilted leaf, making its final descent into that which it thought it was so far above. How can one be happy if they don’t enjoy the journey? It is only those who meander who truly get to town, even if they never reach it.