You've got the entire world in front of and behind you.
And it is flat.
And it seems to end by never ending.
The wind mills spin in the silence of the rising sun and falling moon as a deer races across the path and the birds warm up their vocal chords. Mornings are for love. Soft and sweet and tenderly they wait to be seen, or not, but you are lucky if you remember to look.
When you can't find any other boot prints, you realize your desire to walk up the hill with the pink path over ruled your logic for the man made signs. And you have walked off the path onto another.
You turn around, trying to excuse yourself for your mistake,
But then you realize you do not need excuses; this is your Camino.
So you slow down. You listen to the birds. You look back at the city you slept in. You breathe.
And you walk by the edge of the road on the way down, watching the place where plants have dared to grow. In the middle, only footprints and rocks are left, while along the edges the blackberries, the fig trees and the thistles grow.
This is the speed of life.
The speed only your feet can take you, where you can see everything that is. The way that it is.