The Way of the Mystic

The way of the mystic is the wilded over forest path, the one beset with thorns and ancient webs and shadows that darkly loom. It is not for the wieldy traveler, and you might well ask, why take it when dangers beseech, when terrors unbidden advance, terrible spectres which lurk and wait to rise from unseen places?

And to those who would or do, I would advise: abandon it. There is a road better traveled and smoother where the sights and sounds have been preordained for your pleasure, where the wounded and impoverished and scar-laden have been shuffled safely away soas not to offend ones delicate sensibilities.

But the mystic will never ask. And instead that unsavory path will burn from within like a siren's call. With curious footfalls she will navigate the thick wood of sorrows, will heed the call of the owl and the raven, will wait for signs, will bleed, will receive wonders and will emerge a strange darkling creature, empty-handed, while all the world will scoff and think her mad.

But oh, how her eyes will glow.