The Labyrinth
"The Labyrinth has many paths each leading to a new and wondrous sight." So the advertisements read and reviews rave. You can hear them, the so very satisfied participants in the mystery, gathered outside on their ways home after the great experience, talking. They cannot do justice to what it is that they have seen, and their words are almost incomprehensible to each other as much as to any eavesdropper; but still they exchange their accounts in awed tones, this and that, trying to express what cannot be expressed. The ineffable something—no, somethings, each, it is sworn, distinct.
I've never seen them. Any of them. No, the Labyrinth has one path, so far. You may enter as many times as you like, to walk all its myriad ways and see all, and so I have, countless times, countless times, for a countless time. There is no admission charge, the Labyrinth is free; yes, you may enter as many times as you like. Yet no matter the time of day or night, no matter how much I search, no matter how hard I try, there is but one road through the hedgerows and it leads right back to where it began. Right back to where I began.
No one knows how the Labyrinth came to be nor who was responsible for its creation. Living plants formed neatly in rows, all tended and pruned, yet none has ever seen the gardener. How long has it been there? Who could say? There's none who remember a time without it, nor any story passed down. In truth, no one much occupies themselves with these questions. They are far too enthralled by the spectacle of the place itself to concern themselves with so mundane a thought. No. They talk of its pathways and its grounds; they talk of the many exits and what there is to see when you have reached them; but about the questions of the Labyrinth, they are unanimous in silence, and seem to resent any who does not share their consensus.
I've heard them talking myself. The stories do not just come to me secondhand of a secondhand. Perhaps they are, all of them, lying—but to what end? And who could have arranged such an elaborate charade? Are they supposed all to be paid stooges of whatever or whomever owns the Labyrinth spreading rumor about its many and diverse experiences? Again, I am left with the question of the ends. It doesn't make any sense; then again, what of the Labyrinth does? No, no, certainly not. But the uncertainty of why the Labyrinth exists remains.
Purists, of course, would insist that it is only a labyrinth if there is just the one path and no other. But there are no purists here. A maze, a labyrinth—oh labyrinth is such a fine word, far more compelling, don't you agree? Makes for so much better copy. Whoever got the word out about the place surely knew that. Or have I been a purist all along and have caught myself at unawares? Have I by some subconscious thinking, some notion drilled into me long ago, made the Labyrinth so? Perhaps that is why, no matter how much I search, no matter how hard I try, there is only the one path. Perhaps that is why I always return to where I begin. Ah, now there's something to think of, isn't there? I have I made myself a mystery to myself; at least if such an outlandish thing can be true. I don't think so, but then, if I had, I wouldn't think so, would I?
I will try again tomorrow. It's not out of any hope, mind you; I am a hopeless person. It's just that I have to, you see? I have no choice, or if I do, it is forever outside my vision. No, I think I must. I walked the Labyrinth yesterday, I have walked the Labyrinth for days; I will walk the Labyrinth tomorrow, and I imagine I shall keep walking.