Growing up there was a path that was wide and flooded with people. I hated the voyage I was on, and disturbed by my neighbors in the caravan. I had this premonition that there was more than what I had seen around me. I had a promise that one day, when the time came, I would experience more than what I had grown up to know. At 18, I embarked on a journey that was exciting and freeing. The path was higher and more beautiful than I could have ever fathomed. It was less crowded and those on the path were bursting with life. When I ventured out on my own, I was confident that I could manage the terrain, and defend myself against those on the same path. But not far in, I began changing directions and paths until I found myself in a ravine. There was no way out. There was no returning to where I had come from. There was no one here. Then I heard a voice call out to me. Perhaps, the voice of the one whose footprints I had noticed around my camp in the mornings, earlier in the journey. I knew someone was following me, but I never saw them. Their voice was powerful; but could I trust them? I was trying to survive, trying to avoid slipping to my death. I could wait here until I died or trust the One who had been following me.
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