At a certain point,
the world goes flat.
Not empty.
Not hopeless.
Just… revealed.
Like the illusion of depth dissolves
and what remains is honesty.
I look ahead and I still see a life.
I see paths and forks,
detours I cannot predict,
roads that rise and fall,
valleys that stretch longer than expected,
peaks that arrive without warning.
There are storms.
Rain that soaks through everything.
There is also sunlight,
wide beaches,
moments where the air feels kind again.
Along the way, I meet people.
Mentors.
Guides.
Those who hand me a map,
or simply point and say,
“Go that way.”
There are walls too.
Obstacles that stop me cold.
Barriers that ask me to climb,
to rest,
to decide if I am willing to keep going.
Every road looks different.
Every choice feels significant.
And yet, they all move in the same direction.
Toward one certainty.
Death.
For some, that word feels dark.
For me, it feels grounding.
Comforting, even.
Because it is the only thing I know for sure.
Everything else is uncertain.
Everything else is unfolding.
And there is relief in that.
I do not need to control the future.
I only need to walk it.
To witness it.
To be here for it.
Accepting that I do not know
how it will all look,
or when it will end,
has softened something in me.
If the destination is inevitable,
then the meaning lives in the journey.
In the storms.
In the sunlight.
In the walls I climb.
In the hands that guide me.
This is not despair.
This is presence.
This is me, learning to live
with the only guarantee I have,
and letting everything else
become a mystery.
