Still Moving

The ground reflects light the way memory reflects reason: imperfectly, just enough to keep orientation.

There is motion. Not fast. Not slow. The kind that happens when stopping would require an explanation. Each step lands where another step already expects to be. The surface is slick, but familiar. Balance has been learned over time, not mastered, just repeated.

Nothing is being chased. Nothing is being escaped.

Tall shapes loom at the edges of perception. They suggest structure without offering shelter. They could be buildings. They could be thoughts that never finished forming. Their purpose is irrelevant. They do not move. Only the path does.

Light gathers ahead, cool and distant. It does not promise arrival. It simply exists, like a mark placed somewhere so direction remains possible. The glow is steady. It does not pulse or call out. It does not care who notices.

There was a time when movement had a reason. A destination. A story that justified effort. That story wore thin. The reasons dissolved quietly, without drama. What remained was the body’s agreement with time: one step follows another.

Silence presses in, but it is not empty. It is filled with the sound of continuation. The soft rhythm of persistence. The unremarkable miracle of not stopping.

Maybe there is a point. Maybe there isn’t. The question lingers, but it no longer demands an answer. Questions lose power when they are carried long enough.

The reflection below shows a figure advancing through light and shadow. The reflection does not explain anything either. It simply confirms what is already happening.

Movement continues. Not because it leads somewhere. Because it is still possible.