“Look around.” 

 

I don’t understand.

 

“Explore your surroundings.”

 

But I live in them. 

 

“You do not live in them. You have become them; a sapling who thinks itself an acorn. Your home is vacant.”

 

And it was gone. 

And that was the first conversation I had with them. 

 

I am not entirely sure who they are, nor what they inhabit. They came to me first during a time of questioning, of doubt, of sorrow and of stagnation. I found myself having the time of my life when I heard that voice, encouraging me to look around. I did not know what they meant. Each sentence had been spoken in a different voice, but uttered in the same tongue and of the same mouth. For some time, I sat in silence, pondering what they meant. The whole day, I heard nothing, and did nothing. I found my friends. I handed homework in on time. I performed on each exam. During this time, I carried on: I had no bearing. The only way to move, therefore, is forward. 

 

“Why do you march?”

 

My footfalls hardly echo on concrete; it’s more of a shuffle. The soles of my shoes wear according to my shuffle. 

 

“My mind is overrun with the march of your legion.”

 

But I walk alone. I have walked at times with peers. I have always walked alone. 

 

“If to the precipice you stride, the road is well worn. Take care not to stumble.”

 

Nowhere in my view or on my path is there a precipice. It is a flat country; we haven’t cliffs. 

 

And that was my second conversation with them.

 

I grow frustrated with their riddles. They mean nothing to me; they are as self contradictory as they are directionless. I feel compelled to make sense of their nonsense. Their content consumes my daily thoughts. I question the acorn. Such a harmless thing, a seed. Dare to look beyond the drop, I tell myself. A step forward is all it takes to reach the other edge; it asks of me to lift my leg upwards as well as forward. A step. A stair, I find, a solid stair. I take the first step, over the gaping crevasse, looking inward to the unanswered questions I have been avoiding, but am here to answer: Who am I, and where will I go?

 

“Do you go forth without malice?”

 

I step forward with some fear. Malice is born of fear. 

 

“Fear is a derivative of malice. I ask again: Do you stamp?”

 

My step is heavy, but not violent. My legs are leaden. 

 

“Who makes the step?”

 

I made the step. My limbs are in the control of no other. 

 

“A forceful will exists. It sets in motion the minds of lesser men. They call it their own.”

 

My mind is my own, I assure you. 

 

“That is a dict from mind to be executed by body; a mandate of will as fulfilled by the mind is separate.”

 

And that was the third conversation I had with them. 

 

The voice has become familiar; comfortable, almost. I do not know where it comes from, nor am I certain of its motive. My instincts tell me to trust it, welcome it, treat it as if it were an old friend. I feel myself speaking inwardly, asking the question: for whom do I draw breath? For what do I study? Where does this road I walk lead? 

These questions, I find, live plainly. They are written on every test, in every paper, within each text. For what does the sparrow sing, I ponder? For a mate. And yet, that answer is unsatisfactory. What is a mate? Before long, I find myself asking: what is the purpose of a sparrow, and why does it seem to know it better than my peers and I know our own? 

 

“Who gives a choice?”

 

Anyone, I suppose. A choice, however, is a luxury: I still have to do my work. 

 

“Who made the decision for you to do your work?

 

I guess I did. It is why I am here, to work for a degree. 

 

“Who accepts an opportunity?” 

 

They who are offered one; they’d be a fool to neglect it. 

 

“There is a fool, there is one endowed with good fortune, and there is a student. Who is who?”

 

I don’t understand. 

 

“Deaf ears hear the most.”

 

And that was my fourth conversation with them. 

 

I understand now. For me they want a direction. But their direction is not a path I can follow. It is not north. Nor is it an academic department. Their description fits no trail; it hardly fits a description. Every step feels made less by misshapen lumps of cold flesh yolked to legs and more like a dance on pointe. While my steps are improving, it is solitary. The path ahead is covered in moss. The warm green hue mortifies me, strikes my heart with a fiery grip. The sparrow lives to feed, flee, breed and fight. Its primary directive is to make more sparrows. I realize I have never had a primary directive before. It has never been a question. Directives come from above. My body, my mind, my being, it all threatens to route. It longs to fall into lock step. The march of the legion. I look to my friends for strength; they lend what they can spare for this war. I dread every step, I cherish every step. My will, I find, fears none. 

 

Day four has come to a close. What new questions will I be asked tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow? What new knowledge will I come to? The prospect of the days to come terrifies me; for the doubt remains still: What if what I learn proves to be my undoing?