The Two Paths

Walking down the cobblestone pedestrian-only mainstreet, a light rain falling, dampening none of the spirit on the night street. Musicians playing in front of every third darkened shop stoop mingle with crowds overflowing from Tigh Coili's and Taaffe's, standing in the street, sipping their pints under the cheerful drizzle while still more music wafts out the doors behind the smokers and the early-to-bedders. A puppeteer is still performing at the fork where Shop St splits into Quay and High Streets.

Walking the neon-lit underground corridor on moving sidewalks between terminals in O'Hare airport, burdened by a load of bags as heavy as my heart to be ending this fantasy I've been living and wondering what I might have left behind. Walkway ending. Please watch your step. Waiting, possibly for hours, for loved ones to reach me, then facing a prolonged stretch of feeling anywhere but home in between two happier places.

Those are the two paths I could've been walking approximately an hour ago.

Whatever the reasons, whatever the results, I chose correctly.