A thousand stalks stretch up into the darkening sky, rustling as the wind brushes by them, slowly drying up and falling apart. She walks in one direction, following the path in front of her, an extended section of empty ground in front of her, twisting and turning. As she gains momentum, as she becomes more confident in her step, she begins to jog, and then run. She is reveling in the feeling of the fresh breeze as it assaults her innocent face when she crashes, surrounded by scratchy leaves and heavy cobs of ripening corn. She peers up at the gray-azure sky and cringes at the painful wood splinters that assail her soft hands when she attempts to push herself up. Scratches run down and across her face, reddened by embarrassment and uncertainty and pain. She slowly rises to her feet, limping and hurting, but continuing nonetheless. She pushes herself through the pain until she is making choices yet again, turning corners and getting lost, but backtracking and finding her way over and over again. She continues to fall, to get back up again, to lose herself, to find herself and make yet another attempt at the right choice.
How can she ever be certain that she’s taking the right path?
How can she trust her judgment when it’s led her astray so many times before?
What is the real purpose in getting up, in suffering the pain, and moving on, only to know that it all will happen again?