The path

The path is but a way to discover one’s truest wish. For I have walked it countless times by now—let me tell you how it is, how it was, for me.

The path may resemble a mountain, a beach, a golden wheat field, but mine always begins as a hill. It starts steep, covered in sharp green grass, with a golden trail of light left by the Sun to guide me. The air feels warm and cozy. There isn’t much to see, but that’s okay—it feels good after all. As the hill begins to level, daisies and dandelions dance with the grass, moving to the rhythm of the wind. Enourmous clouds stretch high above, castig shadows upon the path. The trail disappears beneath them, so I always have to wait until the Sun shines again. I don’t mind, thought, for the whispers of the wind keep me entertained.

At the end of the trail, the path shifts into the shape of a rose garden. A grey brick wall fences it in, with black poles rising from its structure. The entrance is a grand gate made of the same black poles, adorned with golden details like roses, hearts, and arrows.

Inside, it resembles a French garden, all perfect and detailed to the centimeter. Geometrical patterns define the placement of blue roses growing all around. Sometimes, I stoop to inhale their enchanting scent. Butterflies flutter from bush to bush—Red Lacewing butterflies, their wings gently slicing through the air. They pause, resting on my body.

As I reach the garden’s end, the clouds have thickened, turning dense and grey, covering nearly all the sky. It is dark now, and no longer warm—it feels cold. But I keep going. I must. For once you start the path, the only way is forward.

Upon exiting the garden, blue roses begin to sprout from my limbs, piercing my skin with their thorns, leaving a trail of blood behind me. The farther I move, the colder it gets. Suddenly, rain begins to fall—not violent, not loud, just a silent summer rain. It drips through my body, nourishing the roses. The path grows steeper and steeper.

Being somewhat lost, a new trail appears before me. The final shape the path takes is that of mere ruins—columns supporting nothing, stairs leading nowhere, fragments of stone debris floating in the air. I look up—a stairway leading me to my last destination. The vines and thorns tighten, cutting and tearing my skin, leaving tiny portals to my insides.

At the top, a vast round plaza resembling the star of the four winds, with a pedestal at its center. Beyond it, the sea sings its calm symphony. I barely reach the pedestal. Above it, a pocket watch awaits me—mocking me, frozen at 11:11. Lightning strikes all around, violent, reckless. I stare at the clock, begging it to move, to count the seconds, the minutes, the hours—but it remains still.

The roses grow stronger and stronger. Finally, the pain becomes unbearable, so I curl into a fetal position. I cry, then press my hands against the ground, watching the blood drip from my body. Thunder roars in the background, beating like drums. And as I accept it, the thorns stop hurting, the lightning ceases, the clouds stop crying. At the first ray of sunlight, my body is transformed into a blue rose bush.