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The wicked white path, softened by its appearance which disguises its harshness, gives me the illusion of travel as I meander along its constraints; it is an illusion because the path remains resolutely where it is no matter how persistently I pretend it is merely a means to reaching the place I so solemnly seek to find myself in; or find within myself?

Do we ever travel? Do we ever go out into the world and visit new places? Or do we instead bring new places into our minds when we perceive them as such? Do we not travel when we select a new local supermarket, and visit its location for the first time? We are unlikely to see it as travel. The perception of it as extraordinary is missing; it is too ordinary, too mundane, too greatly in line with our everyday conceptions for it to be worthy of carrying the label of travel.

Travel is restricted to the mind. I choose to travel my wicked white path, I pace my legs, I opt for the illusion and embrace it, and I recognize that the only path I am truly following is that traced in my memory not as a representation of that snowy asphalt, magnificently blinding (or blind in its magnificence), but as a concatenation of the thought processes and emotions so fervently evoked in me by that lonely white track.

Try to travel along the same path twice, I dare you.