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The Chosen Path

It was during the summit of my subtle, yet seemingly extraordinary perseverance as a delinquent man that I took up an acquaintance from a one Mister Soledom. Dating back to the near fundamentals of searching for my way, I came across a lonesome, desolate trail that had only but one end. Decided to explore this most certain of paths, I embarked steadily and surely that I was taking the proper root. After all, I was only exploring the world its most miniscule sense so I could never conceivably be wrong.
IF I recall properly, for this was some time ago, the entrance to the narrow path preceded to a large and quite voluptuous prairie that stretched farther than the likes of a bird’s eye. The temperate weather in the region only made more difficult my field of sight; for the large deciduous and coniferous trees that both captivated and overloaded the abounding land, they seemed miniature in regards to the actual size of the area. I had been uncertain as to what direction to pursue. Should I maintain my fickle course, or rather, go forward into the adjacent intricately laden coves of trees? Once more, I chose the path least time efficient.
Not aware of the time that elapsed, and mostly impossible for me to beckon the tides of sensibility, I choose to say I had been on this straightforward march for roughly three to possibly four days. I had made it certain to myself that my track was not curvaceous and did not conflict with the line I had begun with so as not to find after much time, I had been randomly circling my route. But yet, even with my preventative measures, I had succumbed to the notion that my methods were madly inaccurate. Were they, were they? I hadn’t the slightest inclination at the time, so I felt the urge to move onward once again; in the same pseudo- direction I had been following the time I endured here. Three more sets, and two more rises I began to lose hope. I was timid; food was scarce, I was becoming mad and increasingly unstable. The mind plays a foolish hoax on the burdening traveler when one is scared; I shall confess to my insecurities I was scared. Indeed, for now it has been possibly seven days in this virtual landscape littered with tones of reverence and sweet kisses of simplistic understanding for one to search out, ascertain, and if luck provides, set permanently into thy heart.
The sunrise on the eighth morning was symbolic in its meaningful display. I set out for the last time, knowing if I came across nothing but repetitive mangroves perched atop a slew of embankments, I was heading back on my pre-insanity destination.
“Where am I?” the eight morning yielded my only verbal words since my induction into this terrible state of confusion. Staring high and then across, glancing parallel to the ground amongst the ensuing field, I ogled at what I thought was a solid, man-made foundation. Squinted were my eyes as I peered through the translucent morning fog. Yes, yes it was in fact a hut. Of small proportion and maybe from this point of view, a little preconceived, since it was miniscule in stature, I had nothing else to hang onto but this one hope, this one gleam of light in an otherwise world or eternal darkness.
I stepped out across the heightened earth that lay now, after this time, underneath my worn and weathered boots. I could feel at the end of each night when the dense dark had been laid by the cowardice sun, my foot and then the other. Both begging me for attention and relief. But now here I stood at the precipice of this now vulgar display of a homestead, I knocked. Once, then twice. Nothing. I knocked feverishly for ten maybe fifteen more minutes. Nothing, and then nothing more but growing disappointing silence.
Given, in my thoughts at the time, was what I had perceived to be what I knew, that this was an isolated cot vacant, left by migrating farmers. Nonetheless, and possibly due to my lack of perpetual self-patronizing doubt, I groped the exterior of the confines around, encircling its very contours until I was forced to stop. Not through a window, or even a screen, but from a hole in the corner wall just before the last bend which would have taken me to my original beginning, I detected a shimmer, no, rather a movement of light characterized only by the habitual shifting of a cordial rocking of the chair. Being so shocked by this discovery, I could have most easily swooned yet I maintained my rock steady composure. I had lost my breath and nearly needed to recover on the ground before attempting to voyage into an edifice that could redeem me in a non-irrevocable sort of fashion.
Once I had composed myself into presentable appeal, I spoke the words of a salutation into the opening of the house. The startled figure now jettisoned himself from the rusty chair he had been enduring and found his way to my sound as if by means my voice were a beacon of light to a lost ship in a cold, icy, frothy winter storm. He came but two inches from my now beaten face; his scent was pleasant like that of pine and was wearing a figurative plaid shirt tucked solemnly into his oversized dungarees. My first thoughts were of inhibition and maybe, possibly, mentally handicap.
He sat, rather, stood coldly in front of my body as if it were that of a painting of nobility to a lonesome serf. He was looking at me, and then through me. My blood ran cold and I took on a new perception of the term. Five, maybe ten minutes more, I felt obligated to break this mysterious silence now being felt by my subconscious. Nothing. He said nothing to me.
He maintained his decent hold on my size for another hour, possibly two. Though, now as I reflect on that time, I wonder what made me remain there, standing, still as a statue with the integrity of one as well. Was it a precognition? I will not ever know.
The second decision to end this bout of quietness was enforced by Mr. Solemon. Yes, the man at the window.
“--- - -- …….-- ------ He-, hello.” Frightened and disturbed, with a portion of joy, he replied to my words I said, what felt like nearly weeks ago. “What are you?”
“Me, what? I am afraid I do not follow you. What am I? You mean, who am I?, right?”
“”What are you? You look like I do. You have…. The same…. Body. And your hair. It is the same as I have on my head. You speak as I, you look as I. You must be one of me.”
I was lost for words and deeply confused by his simple thinking and manner of thought. Yet, many hours later, I had come to find out his name was Solemon. Not a last name or even a first. He was known by himself as Solemon. Briefly, well, you must please take into consideration the concept I had been deserted for quite some time now and my perception of it had deteriorated to an extent that this felt like a second and nothing more.
Our brief conversation lasted for a night. This is what I learned: He was born in the exact house I then was, he had parents who died when he was young, maybe at the age of three, possible four. Since that time, he has lived here, alone for what I approximate as forty years. Keeping with his English, he read the piece, The Divine Comedy, which was possible by the predominant foundation of grammar, literature and reading set into him early by his late mother. Though, now, he maintains a heavy taste and tolerance for hell and believes to shun his immortal soul from the nine circles he must follow Dante’s regime of living. Of course, you may be lusting to ask what enabled such a fabled possibility? I am uncertain too, my friend. For the last time I spoke to him was the first time we met. How astonishing was it that when I questioned him how he never knew of anyone other human or a tangible significance, he neither answered nor annoyed by the provocation, asked me, “ You mean you don’t live here?”
I answered him, “No, I came from the land beyond the perimeter of the trees.”
Sitting there, watching him, eyes open, not once blinking for what rendered itself two notes from the clock, I stood up from my perch, closed his swollen eyes and departed from his presence. But just prior to the door closing, I immediately peered back into the misty house to see nothing but a man wrapped in mystery unable to live.
 

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your mom felt my length
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i think the story is of a guy finding himself before he dies...

cliff note version would not make sense...but i'll try:
a guy goes ona trip, travels for 8 days, then finds someone in a hut that's exactly like him. But the guy in the hut has never left the hut in the 40 past years, so he's never seen anyone else in the world. The guy who first went on the trip talks to the guy in the hut for a couple of hours to find out they share the same mother and basically the same life style. The guy in the hut closes his eyes and the traveler leaves...

yeah, that's abou tit.
 
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