The art of not arriving

No map, just motion

There are mornings when you wake already adrift — no anchor, no fixed point, just the low hum of thought looping endlessly behind your eyes. You move through the day like a figure half-drawn, half-erased, watching yourself from some distance you can’t quite cross. It’s not despair, exactly — more like a quiet confusion that never names itself, but lingers, growing roots in the spaces where certainty used to live.

Inside your own mind, the corridors multiply. What begins as a simple question turns inward, folds, fractures, doubles back. You try to trace the path — why this thought followed that one, why that memory returned now, years after it lost its meaning — and you lose yourself in the attempt. The architecture is familiar, but nothing stays the same. Even the light changes. Familiar truths flicker, shift, disappear.

Sometimes you stop walking altogether. You sit — not out of peace, but fatigue — and you listen. The silence is full of echoes: your voice, younger, trying to make sense of something long gone. A decision you didn’t make. A door you never opened. They return, not to accuse, but to remind you that your life is a collection of unfinished sentences. And still, you write more.

There’s a strange kind of beauty in it — the wandering, the not knowing. You begin to suspect the maze was never built to trap you. Only to slow you down. To teach you how to linger. How to see in the dim light. How to stop expecting resolution — and instead, to rest in the drift. Not lost. Not found. Just here.

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