There is no promise of arrival.
No summit waiting beyond the sweat and ache.
No ultimate light to illuminate the silence.
We were told a story.
If we just climbed,
carried enough stones,
meditated longer,
ticked the boxes on the soul’s ledger,
The self could rest.
That another’s map would lead you there.
But there is no finish line.
No final shedding.
No point where longing folds like a closed book.
There is only the dance.
The pulse.
The unbroken buzz of shaping what we carry.
We keep moving
because that’s the only truth we know.