Last night I was once again in the forest.
It was cold and forbidding but for the lights of the campfires.
The campfires were tended by storytellers, and their guests listened intently.
As before some were brighter than others, some were barely embers.
I made my way from one circle of light to the next, enjoying the company of friends.
Suddenly at the brightest of the fires there was a collective gasp, then all grew silent as the storyteller spun one last tale.
He told of a journey of self discovery, of looking at where he had been and where he was going.
He told of looking back in a new light and not really liking what he sees.
He told of a young son and a beautiful wife waiting for him to finish his tale, and how he missed them.
With that he bid his audience goodbye, turned, and took his leave.
Home was calling, it was time to go.
The forest grew darker still as the bonfire went out, but the home fires burned all the brighter.
In the end that is what matters.
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