It's all about what's on the other side. It's all about where you don't go. You walk the road and for so long you have no choices, but today, something changed.

The trees are the same brown/yellow/green. The birds make the same chatter. The flutter-hop on wings with the same speckled salt-and-pepper scatterings as always. But today you have a choice, and that's new.

You aren't one hundred per cent sure that you didn't take a wrong turn somewhere, that you ended up somewhere with a turning. But how could you have taken a wrong turn when there have been no turnings at all? This is your road. It offers you a choice.

Pretend it's only a road. You're only out for a walk. These are only the woods in the back hundred acre; you know where you are. Pretend you can't get lost. Even so, all your tomorrows will be changed by the choosing: North, or South?

I am writing you from the end of the South fork. I don't know how to advise you. I wrote these words on a spare sheet from my notebook, and I folded the paper into a little paper airplane, and it sailed all the way to you. You, at the crossroads. You have opened me up. And I have made you a risk to take.

You are looking up the North fork, and I can't tell you about that. You are looking down the South fork, and I am there.

Who are you?

Who do you want to be?

Every choice you make has to answer those questions, and additionally: How will this action make me that person?

If you take the South fork, that action will make you into me. But you know how to fold paper airplanes, and you know you can't get lost. You will have your say, someday. And someday I will be somewhere else and we won't be talking anymore.

Someday you'll know what I was supposed to say to you.