Oz

I can sense the beginning of the end of the yellow brick road. We've got one last leg to go on, and then we're set loose in the Emerald City, with no direction and no guidance. We continue in the last direction we were headed in, but who knows if that's the right one? Which dark alleyway will be in your path, which concrete wall will block it? The signs are covered, yet everyone else seems to have a purpose. Where is our purpose? Where can we find it or buy it or beg, borrow, steal it? The wizard sits behind his curtain, making the calls, calling the shots. Do we listen? Do we pull down the fabric and strike out on our own? Or will we, years later, realize that we should have bought into it after all? And what of these green-tinted glasses? The spectacles that keep us from seeing the reds? Are those hues worth seeing? Will they show us our reason? Can we put the shades back on once they're taken from our heads? The questions, they're endless, they're difficult, they're many. Where can we put this uncertain load? What do we do past the yellow brick road?