180 degrees away from a pillar of salt

It's interesting how simply going home makes me think about the way I used to be.

There are no specific points along the way where I can say that I stopped being one person and became another. It presents a sort of envy in me whenever I listen to a moment in time in someone's life, when they've decided to change, then and there. I'm either not that decisive, or not that indiscreet.

Today, though, made me ponder what I've done. It seems that I've managed to change my own direction just to spite the fact that this train hasn't come across any switches. It's as if the track was simply picked up and moved. Is this the wrong metaphor? Were the enemy troops in my soul expecting an ambush, instead of the slow beleaguering of goodness? Possibly, I've trained and weathered my own conscience to the point where all I can see to do is the right thing. I suppose it doesn't matter what the metaphor looks like; the point is clear and I'm off-topic. How could I have done so many things wrong? Was that what it took to bring me here?

Was it just switch after switch, until the landmarks by the tracks were drawn so commonly that I didn't bother to notice them anymore?

Was it just ambush after ambush, until the blood on my hands refused to be washed away, making it as skin and nail?

Was it another poor decision after bad advice, until I was forced to find my way back home in the faceless cold, time and time again?

All I could have done, and all I want to return to change-- it would be for nothing. The switches have guided my route from home, and the blood is tied to who I've become. It seems that this ridiculous and intense chain of events has made it impossible for me to move backward. For the first time in a long time, I am genuinely happy with who and where I am.

Now, in five years, I may look back and recall all of the poor decisions I'm about to make. Or, I may look back and say,

You know, I was really on to something.