"You're going to hell, ya know" he yells down cheerfully. It was one of those moments when I could see the high road from the trail I was on.
"Why don't you come on up here and follow me?" he suggests, and I can tell he wants some company. True, the view up there is better, you can look down at all the world, but somehow I like the path I've chosen, winding as it does down through the forest. The trees filter the sunlight, variegated foliage dappling sunlight on the forest floor, mossy logs and undergrowth, the path is comfortable, mysterious. The many bends hide the view, there are surprises lurking. And going on with a cheerful wave at my neighbor the forest swallows me up.
His path is up, forever up, and mine winds forever down, but for some reason they cross again and again. They're never too far apart, and whenever I come to a fork, no matter how many times I take the path that leads away from his I always find him again running parallel. On occasion I've had to walk his when they've run together, I don't like it. The view down is spectacular, but the trail is rocky and precarious. You must always keep you eyes on the path.
Sometimes he has company. When he does they make a great raucous, singing and clapping and praising the lord, cymbals and bells and loud conversations meant for me to overhear. Then in time they quarrel, parting ways at a fork in the road, some will find me on my path and praise my judgement, walking alongside me and chattering like imbeciles. I shake them at the forks in the road, letting them choose the path up I continue my slow meandering down.
"You're going to Hell, ya know" they say as we part, some good natured, others less so.
The path up the mountain, it's rocky and steep, it affords splendid views to those who'd take a break and look, but they keep their eyes on the path, only looking down to recommend the trail they're on.