Monocrostic Man

The path stretches, a single, unwavering line etched across the landscape of his days. No forks appear, no tempting detours whisper from the sun-drenched meadows or shadowed woods. Each footfall lands precisely where the last one lifted, a rhythm of relentless repetition. Does a flicker of rebellion ignite in the quiet corners of his mind? A yearning for the wild abandon of a branching trail, a choice made, not given? Or has the singular direction become his very being, a comfort in its stark simplicity, a strange and solitary peace? He walks on, a living sentence, each step a word in a story that only knows one inevitable ending. ©bfa042125