do we ever move on?
To move on is not liberation, it is a quiet mutilation of the self. Something within you must be severed, discarded, buried without ceremony. And yet, in that violence, there is at least a trace of movement, a reluctant evolution, as though pain itself were the only proof that you are still capable of becoming something other than what you were.
But when time moves on without you, it does not wound, it erodes. It hollows you out slowly, almost mercifully, until you no longer notice what is missing. Your priorities shift, yes, but not out of clarity, out of fatigue. You begin to accept things not because they make sense, but because resistance feels futile. You survive, but you do not change. You persist, but you do not grow.
And this is the crueler fate: to remain fundamentally the same while everything else slips into distance. To wake up one day and realize that nothing has held you back except your own stillness, and yet, you are no closer to escape than you were before.
It is a paradox that offers no comfort: whether you move or remain, something in you is lost. But if you refuse to move on, time will ensure that you return, again and again, to the same desolate place within yourself, until even that place begins to feel like all that you are.
And in the end, you will move on, not out of courage, nor hope, but because there will be nothing left in you capable of staying.
