The Weight of Gold

The climb begins in shadow, long before the lights ignite. Each step a solitary pact with dawn, with doubt, with fight. First, the small victories: a solved equation, a whispered truth finally spoken, the tremor in the hand now steady. No crowd then, just the quiet hum of something shifting, a seed taking root in the dark. Then come the thresholds, the measured paces, the rhythm of the long race. Not always first, sometimes second's silver gleam, a testament to pushing close, to breath caught in the throat, to the unyielding chase. And some days, the apex. The roar that swallows thought, the air thin with triumph, a weightless knowing of every lonely hour poured in. The platform lifts, a singular space, where all roads converge, and the gaze is bright, reflecting back the journey, the effort, the earned grace. But the true win isn't always pinned to chest. It's the quiet knowledge of the peak scaled, the promise kept to self, the strength unearthed when doubt was a hungry, barking beast. It's the spirit unbroken, the heart still beating strong, ready for the next climb, the next horizon, the next place among the stars.