I've always been one to notice the hole in the fabric of humanity, where one may press through a finger to the place outside. You can peek through such a hole...though there is nothing to see due to the brilliant ambient backlight of where we now are, and the rush of smoke-like familiar air which flows out past us through the hole into the apparent void—smoke-like, for the congestion of countless generations breathing at once and through time, the stale air of expired speech and laughter, and the crying out at birth, and the guttering last utterances of death; molecules of atmosphere kept in through closed doors and lashed windows and heavy curtains drawn tight. But still, we can peek through the little hole in where and what we are, and see out into the darkness outside, and know there is more.
A clear road at night— To a lighted city down below Companions along the way Streetlights, Conversation, A place to rest and eat... A break in the trees— Into the dark woods above No one, No light, No talk, No place to rest or eat...
And if we wiggle our probing thumb the hole then gets wide, for no shutter is real once we elect to say no. And now we've two fingers through, and then three, and now our hand; though we still can not see, it is too dark, and very cold—or is that heat?—and the wind falls now with a mad, whistling rush of vacuum drawing our dear something into void. Has down now become out? Is it gravity pushing the wind? Will I fall through?
You will not fall. As though the opening is now large enough to leave if we choose, we nevertheless always remain without some force of will first deciding to go. There are shapes now beyond in the dark, and something moving with stealth among what may be trees. And a strange sound perhaps in the distance, very far. There is no road or trail out there in the beyond, no place to go, nothing to see, and no one to show us the way. But you've come this far now... You've opened the way.
Will you step through to where no promises are made, let alone kept?
And no friends are found, let alone made?
Nor warmth, or light of life even, let alone desire?
The Path of Wildness is easy to find The course of a stream Leaves blown in the wind A beast's track through the brush And the direction of our first inclination