The Wayward Scholar

He wanders the summer trails uncertain of what he will find on his ventures. He wanders the muddy paths throughout the breezy hillside making routine assumptions about his objectives. He assumes that he wanders these trails expecting to find happiness. He assumes happiness is his goal because it is the most logical to be seeking but he doesn’t actually know. Perhaps he is seeking love, his unconscious and spoiled spirit yearning to make acquaintance with the estranged wanderers hustling by with only friendly nods or high waves as their greetings. Perhaps he sought guidance for the flames at his feet left no markings of his travels and his compass spun wildly unable to locate North in the verdant haze. Perhaps it is a curiosity about the land that he could never accurately describe for fear of overthinking. He knows that he is hiking the trail and that the only way to go is forward through the twisting and meandering routes. Upon looking at this stranger you would guess that he was an invasive species among the grove before a naturalist among kin.  

He was dressed in brown denim jeans, a pinstriped white and blue long sleeve button shirt paired with a sharp dress shoe. His expensive watch glittered and twinkled on his wrist, making itself known by flashing brilliantly in the sunlight with each passing stride. His freshly cut hair and manicured beard placed him at a boisterous brunch before anyone’s backyard. The only thing that properly puzzled him into the tapestry of this jungle was his backpack. Tall, pregnant and bright orange. He strolls under the crisp glow of sunlight as it escapes out of view near the horizon gently easing its way to sleep below the surface.  

After wandering the usual miles across the usual muddy paths distracted with the usual preoccupations, he finds himself on an unusual curve. An unusual curve on the usual trail leading towards unknown and even more unusual places.  Except, the most unusual thing about this curve is how it is not entirely unusual to him at all. In brief moments of exchange with hurrying wanderers, he learned that he alone has ever seen this unusual trail and he alone has only ever stepped onto this unusual curve. After many revolutions and hikes through the wilderness he had come to understand that this path did not always exist. Whether it entirely disappeared, or his navigation had simply failed him time and again. He was never able to find it on purpose when exploring the convoluted labyrinth of trail systems.  

He was surprised and curious that it had appeared before him once again. He couldn’t resist the invitation and the temptation to explore. Following this unusual trail turned out to be rather taxing as it elevated steeply. The path contorted in sharp serpentine turns through thick woody branches that held a strong boundary into the forest where the path plateaued. The dark branches seemed to fight him if he attempted to make his path more convenient through the brush. Crimson streams trickled down his hands, arms and legs as his sliced flesh was pricked with thorns that no branch seemed to bear. Remaining carefully on the winding road he noticed that the shadows of the trees were growing longer and the liveliness of birds in the canopies had begun to quieten. Bad luck rarely allowed him to reach the other side of the mysterious trailhead, dusk and darkness would force him into a retreat back to the entanglement. It seemed that this adventure would be no different and as nightfall became imminent, he felt it was wiser to remain on familiar pathing in the dark. He would return to find the Sun teasing sleep only to remain mysteriously glued to the horizon.  

He explores beyond the usual trails every opportunity that is afforded to him exasperated at the short explorations but continues his wanderings seeking aimlessly nonetheless. Stepping into his own footprints, tracking his own way, zig zagging over the soft earth. In the jungle with his orange back pack he settles to rest in cramped concrete boxes on hard steel chairs with birds nesting noisily in the canopies above. He rummages through his backpack whom having shared hundreds of miles across the landscape has become his most reliable companion.  

He reached and rummaged endlessly for pens, papers, folders, books, and clips. He reached for maps, compasses, protractors and a mess of corporate paraphernalia. He reached desperately into his backpack bending over until half his body was pouring into the cavernous canvas pocket. He reached for answers, for questions, but only managed to extract noise and fabric. He worked every tendon in his core, every fiber in his shoulders until each muscle was near splintering as his fingers stressed for the bottom they never reached. He returned the assortment of empty artifacts into the orange backpack he had just emptied. He rises to his feet once again and begins his walk. He wanders the trails carrying the weight of all things. Carrying the weight of his past, his present, his future and all that is unknown and of nothing at all.  

He wanders the usual trails, the muddy paths wondering to himself when will he be free from the purgatory of endlessly moving forward. He has not passed by any other wanderers, hiking groups or friends. It is then that he finds himself on the unusual curve once again. He wanders the usual unusual twists, steep slants and usual turns of the unusual path. He travels among the path and instead of discovering dusk or darkness, he discovers a wide field of tall green grass peppered with blue and orange. He chooses to continues on, carefully shielding his face to allow his eyes to adjust to a bright afternoon Sun gleaming down into the abruptly open glade. It is rare that he finds himself in the full spotlight of the sky and Sun as both are normally partially obstructed from view due to tall tree tops. There was a notable descent from the curving path between the tight trees and the path that led ahead into the grassy field. It was as if the trees were blown away in years past leaving a large impression and this strange blue and orange peppered grass. He pressed even further into the field unlike the angry branches that thorned him when disturbed parted more willingly as he stepped forward curiously. He soon found that the field hosted one other occupant aside from himself in the center of the grassy sea.  

At first, he imagined that it was a colossal stone covered in strange and thick vines but once moving closer it seemed quite indistinguishable from a limb. His eyes widened as the scene came into impossible comprehension. There lay a momentous appendage, 30 meters high, cylindrical in shape and ending with a strong palm and giant fingers. It’s dis-member now hosting delicate bean plants erupting from its earthy shell. Yet it lay beautifully, graceful and a marvelous sight. A hidden treasure and forgotten relic outside the usual labyrinth of time. He is unable to tear his eyes away and gets lost in its glory. Mesmerized by the towering wonder, he doesn’t notice when the Sun begins slipping away ushering in dusk. He notices too late about the darkness. He gets lost in its glory and now wanders the grassy field searching for the unusual path that will lead him back to the usual winding summer trails. Although the grassy sea stepped aside so he could route his own path, there was no boundary to help him navigate as he stepped forward frantically in the mud. He searched making tight twists, convoluted turns, unusual rotations until his chaotic circles were spinning more wildly than his compass. A lap around the mighty limb while the Sun dipped further past the horizon. Anxious beads of sweat dripped on his brow as another lap around the incredible extremity revealed a blazing afternoon Sun. Though a few more laps threatened a cold darkness swiftly encroaching.  

An invisible darkness moved through the glade as incredible living monuments disguised in the breezy hillside awaited seekers who strayed too far off path. He gets lost in its glory, visibly wincing while bean plants erupted from his arms, back and face. He sees the hundreds of years, the millennium passing of the giant in whose tomb he now shared. For he and his orange backpack became companions of something unusual that was not dismembered at all. He could see the glorious hand in a new light. He now verified how it was petrified vivaciously. Its last moments had every tendon working hard, those mighty fingers desperately stressed toward the heavens, fibers reaching into an empty and unreachable sky. He could see them wandering the unusual paths and unfamiliar curves endlessly. Now only the bones nourishing unseen roots remained and an outstretched arm, in the moments of finality and eternally reaching from the bottom.  He wondered as he eyes glazed over milky white, vines strangling his body, beans hollowing him out for expansion. “If they were seeking love.”