My chest hurts from the climb, but the quiet up here is the only thing keeping me sane right now.
Photo by Ilya Dudnikov from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/man-sitting-on-a-hill-17854759/
I’ve been moving for so long that I can’t even remember the version of myself that started this trip. My memory is just scattered pieces. There are moments—heavy, exhausting moments—where I want to collapse right into the dirt and just stop. I think about walking away from it all, but I don’t even know where I’d go. The alternative feels like a dark, empty room.
But then I remember how much it hurt to get to this exact spot, and I can't let that pain go to waste. I still feel the weight of those nights spent wondering if I'd even make it to the morning. That feeling stays in my bones.
The ground under my boots is broken and torn up. It’s a long stretch of deep holes, some filled with clear rain, others with thick, ugly mud. I have to look down at my feet constantly because there’s no way to walk this path without stepping straight into the mess. I can't leap over the hard parts. I’m caked in dirt, and the voice inside my head is meaner to me than any enemy could ever be. But deep down, under the shame and the exhaustion, I still believe I’m a good person. I don’t know how many miles are left, but I know if I give up and sit down forever, I’ll lose whatever is left of myself.
Every few miles, I look up, just begging for a little bit of warmth on my face. But the thick branches above block everything out. The tiny streaks of light that do break through are gone before I can even enjoy them. It’s incredibly lonely. It makes me feel like whatever I’m running toward is just going to lead to more confusion and more waiting. The horizon doesn't owe me any answers. The only way to see the end of my story is to keep dragging myself forward.
That’s the price of admission out here. Whether I’m having a beautiful day or taking absolute hell from the world, it all counts. Some days I completely ruin everything around me; other days I manage to get it right. I’m learning to live with both versions of myself.
Right now, I’m sitting on a cold rock, writing this down before the darkness completely swallows the page. I think I just need to see my failures and my little victories sitting right next to each other, just to prove I'm still human. This stone isn’t going to stand here forever, and neither am I. Eventually, we all turn to dust. Honestly, knowing that brings me peace. The terrible days have to end eventually, even if I can’t speed up the clock.
The air is freezing now, and it’s time to stand up. I keep thinking about a tiny green weed trapped under a massive concrete block. It doesn't cry about it; it just bends, crawls through the dark, and finds a way out into the light.
I’m done looking for an easy exit. There’s a deep river ahead and a lot of thick brush to tear through, but I’m going anyway.
I’m moving.