But what is this thing that pulses inside me and asks for more? More than the already-given, more than the now, more than the ripe fruit that falls heavy on my hand. Should I bite it? Should I let the juice run down my chin? Or should I Wait, motionless, until it rots and returns to the earth?

I still move, but why move? The world is already here, complete in its unfinishedness. Every step forward is a betrayal of the present moment, a refusal to bow before the altar of what simply is. And yet, I keep moving. Because stillness is also Death, sort of. The Unshaken tree will never know the ecstasy of the wind.

Is the universe disturbed by my existence? By this breath that enters and leaves without permission, I am a question that no longer looks for an answer, I am simply a wound that bleeds and doesn’t care why it’s being reopened over and over.

Perhaps there is no forward, only the illusion of it. Perhaps there’s only this: The unbearable lightness of being, the weight of the spoken, terror and glory of the present moment that we struggle to capture but it always slips away.

So I move because I am alive (allegedly). Life is a verb that refuses to sit still. Even if moving is madness, even if staying is madness. The choice itself is the thing that devours me – and let it. I let it.