What if the path she treads is not something she can forge with bare and calloused feet alone, but rather from the tremulous yet essential steps she takes in her mind?
What if the rotten and worthy debris she must clear to make her way forward doesn’t fall from any tree whose furrowed bark she holds in outstretched hands, but rather from the dense and daring forest inside?
What if the path she sees before her isn’t real, disappearing like a mirage shimmering in the desert, crumbling like sand between her trembling fingers, until it’s created by her world within?