I am sure I have been walking, but the only thing I don't fully remember is which road I have been walking on. The fragments of the journey are all I have left; I know I don't need to keep walking—maybe rest, or change lanes. Would I change lanes when I have already chosen this one, and the opposite is a void? But I remember every experience; it is the atmosphere I remember most.
A wide, cracked road with endless potholes, potholes filled with clean or dirty water. If I was to walk, my eyes were to be hooked to the ground. Every step I took was to either land on dirty water or clean, but I wasn't going to skip any. I am dirty on the outside, which makes me judge myself more than any person would, but I am sure of one thing: there is still something good in me. I don't know how far I need to walk, but I am sure if I stopped walking, I would disappear.
I stretch my eyes far and wide to catch a glimpse of light and see the sun shine, but the branches ahead block some of it. The little I receive brightens my day, but then it fades fast, like the morning dew. I look forward to a place that feels like a destined place, but far beyond it lies the mystery—what lies before the destined place. My wonder and excitement won't reveal what is coming, but I know for sure there is only one way to find out, and that is by walking down that road.
One thing I love about the road I am on is that it will always be a paradox—whether I step on clean water or face criticism from the dirty, in the end I will have a story to tell. One where I tried but missed the point, and another where I tried and came out clean—both make up the beauty of the road I am on.
I am resting on a rock, writing this story. I don't know why I should do so, but at least it makes me realize this is what I have been going through, and it helps me list down the flaws as well as the wins. The rock isn't foolish enough to claim it's some undying beast—one day you and I will fade with time, and only leave ghosts to dance beside our graves, or believe in reincarnation, but still, you won't be there.
But even though the stone never truly dies, it withers with time and turns to soil. The point is, I am sure I am not permanent, and anything that surrounds me, the great relief is that it too will pass—but time and the pace of all of that remain a mystery.
I will surely rise from this stone and continue the journey, because even when a plant is pressed down by a stone, it always finds a way to grow again, or else accepts that it is pressed. I will not stop walking, but I will be sure never to go back and change lanes, and even if I were to, I don't know if it would be worth it.
I am walking away to cross the river and push past the long branches ahead, so you should too—and the darkness ahead only needs my consciousness, so I am off.