My boots have been caked in dried mud for so long that I’ve forgotten the original color of the leather. I’ve been walking this stretch of road since dawn, though if you asked me exactly where it leads, I couldn't tell you. The map in my head dissolved miles ago, replaced by the heavy reality of the physical world. Every muscle in my legs is begging for a reprieve, my lower back throbbing with a dull ache that matches the rhythm of my boots hitting the dirt. Part of me wants nothing more than to drop my pack right here, lie down in the tall grass, and let the evening swallow me up.
Photo by İslam Abruev from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/solitary-stroll-on-scenic-autumn-road-38329065/
Staying still carries its own danger. On a road like this, inertia feels less like rest and more like a slow surrender. If I stop moving, I run the risk of fading entirely into the background.
The road itself is a ruined thing—split open by asphalt fractures and pitted with potholes. Some are filled with stagnant water; others hold clear pools that mirror the overcast sky. There is no strategic way to dodge them; the path is too narrow. With every stride, my eyes stay locked on the dirt, calculating where to place my weight. I’m carrying the grime of this journey on my skin, but the heaviest baggage isn't something you can wash off.
I have always been my own harshest judge, keeping an unforgiving ledger of every missed opportunity and wasted mile. Yet, beneath the sheer exhaustion and the self-inflicted blame, a stubborn spark remains. I don't know how much farther I have to travel, but I know that to stop walking is to allow the worst parts of my past to finally catch up with me.
Every now and then, I force my chin up, searching the canopy for a breakthrough of sunlight—just a brief flash of warmth. But the low-hanging branches form a dense roof that blocks out the sky. The few stray beams of light that pierce through the damp leaves vanish almost instantly, evaporating like mist off a morning field. It is easy to get lost wondering what happens after I arrive. But speculation doesn't shorten the distance. The only real answer to an uncertain future is the mechanics of the next step.
That is the absolute honesty of this road. It doesn't cater to illusions. Whether I drag myself through clean water or take a hard fall into the muck, it all eventually burns down into raw material for a story. There are miles behind me where I completely missed the mark, where I made the wrong choices and paid the price. And there are brief stretches where I managed to keep my footing against all odds. Both versions belong to me. I can't disown the failures without discarding the strength it took to survive them.
Right now, I’m resting on a jagged rock by the wayside. I’ve taken out a crumpled notebook to scratch these thoughts down before they lose their edge. It feels necessary to line up the flaws and the small victories side by side on the page, if only to prove to myself that they can coexist without destroying each other.
The stone beneath me isn't putting on airs; it is slowly eroding under the constant assault of the wind and rain. Eventually, long after I am gone, this boulder will wear down into nothing but fine soil. There is a strange comfort in that. The chaos of the present moment—the anxiety, the physical pain, the doubt—is entirely temporary. It will pass, even if the exact timing remains completely out of my hands.
The shadows are lengthening, a clear sign that it’s time to get back up. I look down near the base of the boulder and notice a tiny, pale weed forcing its way out from a hairline crack. Its stem is bent at a sharp angle, but it has adapted, shifting its shape just to find a sliver of light. If a plant can figure out how to grow under the crushing weight of a stone, I have no excuse. Turning back is an impossibility; the bridges behind me have been burned by time. The air is turning noticeably colder as I approach the riverbank, the sound of rushing water growing louder with every step. I push through the thick brush at the water's edge. The path on the opposite bank is dark, obscured by twilight, and entirely uncertain. But I’m stepping off the bank and into the current
anyway.