Crossroads

Here you are, at the crossroads. The roads go six ways from here. You do not wonder where they go.

It is this spot on which you dwell. Lost in a stillness of pleasant confusion. Thinking you are at the centre of things. Knowing that choice will leave you bereft...

In a spot, secure, you raise your head. But as eyes wander at random over the field of things, you see more crossroads, and then more. The roads themselves seem to have vanished. You pray for a straight or crooked line to set you right. You begin to wonder... Is this world a patchwork? Where is the substance of things?

Perhaps lines are in the eye? So too the patchwork?

Then you cease wondering. Again, you are still. "Thread a needle through space; make something of yourself".