Don’t burn your bridges.
They insist it. But, as I stand staring at the bridge I’ve crossed, I can’t help but notice the ill-repair that it has fallen into. Soot stains mark its splintering wood, and the beams that hold it aloft from the burbling river below reek of a deep rot that creeps up the grain.
In the fine sand that settled on its top, I can see the footprints that cross back and forth. My footprints. The steps I took as I refused to move on. Restless pacing and indecisiveness, I had unintentionally made this bridge my home.
In the end I decided I’m not going that way. I let the flaming torch drop and felt the fire warm my back as I walked.