My Watercolor roadways.

If I could draw a poetic map, where each twist and turn of my traveled road to this point in my sojourn, to the here and now, becomes a chapter...

charting the emotional topography of my life...not in miles or years, but in colors, textures, and turning points...

🗺️ Each chapter, a moment of choice, change, or awakening...Each painted in metaphor, memory, and mood.

I then would imagine my life’s journey as a watercolor portrait -

each fork in the road caught in splashes of saffron uncertainty,

violet longing, and the pale blue hush of choices not taken.

The pigments bleed softly into one another,

They are memory transformed into dream,

childhood into dusk.

Some paths were painted with bold strokes -

sunlit yellows of joy,

crimson bursts of rebellion,

the deep forest green of solitude.

Others faded before they formed,

washed out by hesitation or the gentle erosion of time.

There were seasons when the brush trembled -

when the lines blurred,

and the colors ran wild across the canvas.

Moments when I mistook chaos for freedom,

and silence for peace.

But always, the paper held me.

Even when soaked through with pain and sorrow,

even when the edges curled with regret,

it held the shape of me...

unfinished, evolving,

a portrait still in progress.

I see the winding paths, the golden light,

and the quiet invitation of the hills.

It feels like a memory waiting to be stepped into.

At the Place Where the Roads Split

I remember standing there once.

Not as a child exactly,

but as something softer -

a version of myself still filled with wonder,

still listening for the voice that hadn’t yet learned to speak.

There was no witness but the wind,

no footprints but my own,

and even those faded quickly

into the watercolor hush of the earth.

The paths didn’t speak.

They simply waited...

one curling left into shadowed hills,

the other bending right beneath a sky

that reminded me how to dream.

I chose, though I don’t recall which.

That’s the mystery of it.

The moment was real,

but the memory is a painting

that changes each time I look.

Now, grown and weathered in places I didn’t expect,

I return - not in body, but in thought.

The fork is still there,

but the child is gone.

And in their absence, the scene becomes something else:

a symbol, a silence,

a question that no longer needs answering.

I walk again,

not to choose,

but to understand

how every road I’ve taken

has led me here...

to this new beginning,

where the colors are deeper,

the brushstrokes more deliberate,

and the paper still wide enough

to hold whatever comes next.

It begins. It continues.