I know I've been walking for a while now, but if someone asked me which road I'm on, I wouldn't know what to tell them.
I have forgotten some of the turns, and the memories I can still hold onto come back in pieces. Sometimes I feel like sitting down for a while. Other times, I wonder whether I should have taken a different road altogether. But different from what? I don't even know where the other road would lead.
Image from my gallery
What I remember most isn't the distance I've covered. It's how certain moments made me feel. Some days left me with a kind of warmth I couldn't explain. Others stayed with me for reasons I'd rather not revisit. I may have forgotten the details, but I haven't forgotten what it felt like to be there.
The Things We Step Into
The road in front of me is wide, cracked and full of potholes. Some are holding clear water; others are filled with muddy rainwater, the kind you wouldn't want touching your shoes. Yet I keep stepping into both. There isn't always enough room to go around them, and sometimes I don't notice them until my foot is already inside.
I spend so much time looking down that I rarely notice what's growing along the roadside. My attention is usually on where I might stumble next, what I could have done better, or which mistake I should have avoided.
I carry the dust of this road with me, and somehow, I have become very good at reminding myself of every wrong step. Nobody has to do it for me.
Still, beneath all that dust, I believe there's something in me worth holding onto. I don't always know how to reach it, and there are days when even believing in it feels like work. But it's there. Perhaps that's why I haven't stopped.
A Little Light Through the Branches
Every now and then, I look up, hoping to catch a little sunlight. The branches above me are low, and most of the light gets caught somewhere between the leaves. Whatever makes it through doesn't stay for long.
I get a glimpse of it, just enough to remember that the sky is still there, even when I cannot see much of it.
I often wonder what waits at the end of this road. But lately, I've started wondering something else: what if there isn't really an end?
What if reaching the place I've been working towards only introduces me to another stretch of road, another set of questions, another version of myself trying to figure things out?
I suppose that's part of what makes being alive so strange. We spend so much time trying to understand where we're going that we sometimes forget to notice what is happening while we get there.
And everything becomes part of the journey. The days I got things right, the ones I wish I could repeat differently, the people who stayed, and those who disappeared without much explanation.
Some experiences leave us feeling lighter. Others change the way we carry ourselves. I cannot separate one from the other and still call the result my life.
Even the Rock Will Wear Away
I'm sitting on a rock as I write this. My legs could use the rest, and perhaps my thoughts could too.
Looking at the road from here, I can see a few things I missed while I was busy watching my feet. I can also see how far I've come, although I couldn't tell you exactly when the distance happened.
The rock beneath me looks as though it has been here forever. It has probably watched countless rainy seasons come and go, with people and animals passing by without giving it a second thought.
Yet even this rock will eventually break apart. Rain will wear it down, roots may find their way through it, and one day it will become part of the soil.
I find some comfort in that.
Nothing is required to remain the same forever. Not the things that hurt us, not the circumstances we struggle with, and not even the versions of ourselves we once thought we would always be.
Things change, sometimes slowly enough that we hardly notice, and sometimes so suddenly that we are left trying to catch up.
The Road Hasn't Ended
I should probably get up now.
Somewhere ahead, a small plant is growing beside the road, partly trapped beneath a heavy stone. I wonder how long it has been there.
Maybe it will find a way around the stone. Maybe it will grow beneath it, taking whatever little space it can find. Either way, it is still there, doing what it can with the ground it has been given.
I don't know why that image stays with me, but it does.
I brush the dust from my clothes and leave the rock behind. There's a river ahead, and beyond it, branches hanging low enough to make the path difficult to see.
I could stand here trying to imagine everything waiting on the other side, but that wouldn't get me any closer.
So I'll cross when I get there.
The darkness ahead doesn't necessarily mean there's nothing beyond it. Sometimes it only means I haven't walked far enough to see.
For now, that's enough.
I'm getting back on the road.