The Journey

Each morning I wade through fog, hands outstretched, grasping at wisps that dissolve between my fingers. The weight of unknowing bends my spine like scoliosis, and yet, I stand. Questions carve canyons into my thoughts, deep gorges where certainty once lived. Each step forward scrapes against rough stone, leaving bloody footprints of trying. But pain is a chisel that shapes the soul, and doubt is the hammer that breaks false foundations. Even as I bleed, I bloom like flowers forcing through concrete. The meaning I seek may never fully form, but in this holy ache of searching I find something better: the courage to keep asking, the strength to stay uncertain, And in the end, perhaps the journey itself is the meaning I sought— not a destination to reach, but a path that shapes me with every excruciating step.