I walk down the path of life, untouched by hatred.
The path grows narrow.
I slow down, but am persistent.
The path grows narrower still.
Soon I am surrounded by sharp, tearing bushes.
The path disappears.
I am in a vicious jungle, fighting thousands of thorns.
I will get through.
The thorns open deep wounds in my soul.
I will survive.
The bushes hold strong.
I will fight.
Finally, gasping and near suffocation, I break through.
The barrier that I have suffered through has a small path,
The path which I created.
The thorns that tore at me relentlessly give way.
Others may use my path, the path that I fought for,
The path that I gave my lifeblood for.
Looking back, I see that several men have done the same.
They came out of their own paths, gasping and bleeding heavily.
Our paths connect.
As I gaze in wonder at the network of lives, a small child walks up to me.
What will you call it? He inquires.
I call it.....
America
