At the Crossroads.

I touch this pen to paper once more. Once more, a heartfelt narrative. Once more, a labour of intense love. Though now, my thoughts and feelings are carrying with them a hint of desperation.

For I find myself at a crossroads. An intersection in the journey of my life.

And so does she.

They say people who commit suicide go to hell. They didn't know which way to go. They took the cowardly option. Squeezed their own inner flame of life. Squeezed. Strugled. Until the flame was snuffed out.

I am not a coward. Never would I allow myself to entertain such a notion. For I am already in hell. I understand now, exactly what it feels like to be stuck at at crossroads.

Like a thick fog covering the roads ahead, my desire makes the decision difficult. I don't know which way to go. Freezing winds cut through my body, sending a chill down my spine. A chill which touches my very soul.

My conscience, like a blazing fog lamp, would normally point my in the right direction. Cut through the obscurity like a hot knife through butter. But alas, I cannot rely on an old friend. For the globe inside is busted. It simply ceases to function. I am on my own.

Suicide victims go to hell, they say. They are even buried at a crossroads, to symbolise their lost struggle. Their lost struggle against the encroaching fog. Blinding fog. They too have with them but one companion.

A fog lamp. With a busted globe.

I stand at this mythical crossroads. Though I am very much alive. My heart is beating. My lungs draw breath. I can feel my body, shivering in the cold.

I am alive. Yet I am in hell. Torn between two paths. Carrying on my person but one companion.

A fog lamp. With a busted globe.

I can only imagine what it must feel like for her.

One path must surely lead precisely where I am standing. The other, to parts unknown to me. I can see, faintly in the distance, a pair of eyes. Looking out from a face I have become all too well accustomed to.

It appears as though I'm not the only one who is to make a life-altering decision this evening.

Certainly, she can see me too. Steely gray eyes, peering out from an all too familiar face. A bright red scarf, flapping in the wind. In the distance, a faint glow, trying in vain to cut through the near opaque fog. A place of learning, maybe? Or perhaps, another familiar construct? A steel hulk, guided by metal bars on the ground, and a pair of cables above?

But what of the other path? I care not to mention it. For if I do, my clothing, my character, my integrity, would be stripped bare. Surely my soul would perish in the cold.

She has a companion as well. A very familiar companion.

A fog lamp. With a busted globe.

Every inch of my body quietly implores her to make a decision. Take one of the paths in front of her. Hold the pain at bay for a little while.

I too long to be decisive. But I feel as though I am rooted to this very spot. Stuck here. Like a small animal caught in a roll of razor wire, bleeding slowly in the cold.

So here I stand, at the crossroads. Here I wait. Looking out into the cold, foggy night. Carrying nothing.

Aside from a fog lamp. With a busted globe.

I will wait, until I can no longer see your eyes. Or until I can see their colour once more. Then, I will know you have made a decision.

I love you.