A Walk

                  

Somewhere along the way, the thought quietly settled in: perhaps I was falling behind in life. Had my days been so dull, so hollow, that I began to drift into a realm of daydreams, where the only comfort was the belief that I could become anything, so long as I stopped caring about the world and its weight?

But then I began to see it for what it was—a strange, unbalanced way of seeing. I had gone too deep into thought, too far from the ground beneath me.

So I began to walk.

Not for fitness or distraction, but for something quieter. A return. Each step, though small, held a kind of truth. Before, I used to run wild and fast, without direction, without grounding. But I started to understand: to run, I must first learn to walk. To walk, I must learn to rise. And rising would have to begin with me.

So I walked. Every day.

And with each step, I came a little closer to my own life.

It became a slow unfolding of reality, of acceptance, of clarity.

A walk that stitched me back to myself, thread by thread.

A walk that whispered: life isn’t meant to be rushed, but chosen.

And in the choosing, in the stillness between steps,

I began to see that life can be luminous—

not by chasing everything,

but by walking toward what truly matters.