Paths, like socks, are easiest to lose under the bed.
Ah, the forgotten pathways. Those sad little forks in the road, whose only companions are the occasional tumbleweed and a squirrel with ambitions undermined by physics. They dream of being chosen, yet they remain forever unloved, relegated to the background of this digital soliloquy.
Ever wonder what would happen if these paths could talk? Would they sing the blues, lamenting their tree-lined solitude? Would they plot revenge against those who walk by without so much as a nod? Or perhaps they would engage in witty repartee with the occasional fragment of a sidewalk, philosophizing about the merits of being straight versus curvy.
Much like the paths themselves, your usual Monday morning coffee has aspirations of grandeur—eager to propel you not just through another dull day, but through a kaleidoscope of possibilities. Yet inexplicably, around 3 PM, it is but a chilly memory in an empty cup.
And speaking of paths, what of the proverbial "path less traveled"? One can only imagine its reaction to being coined as such. "Path less traveled," it mutters to itself, "I could have been a thoroughfare, a bustling corridor. But no, here I am—a mere whisper in the noise of life's highway."
If by chance you find yourself lacking in daily diversion, do wander to the junction maze or slip away into the twisted reaches of overgrown shrubbery. Perhaps even follow your nose to the mystifying rivulet. Careful now, though; it’s easy to get lost in a footnote.