Maybe there's nowhere else I need to be.

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After thinking I had finally figured it all out, I came down from the mountain carrying the promise of a life without mistakes. A perfect, comfortable, extravagant formula; a dream where nothing hurt, where the past held no weight, and memory had no teeth.

Down by the river, I could hear barking, laughter, and the murmur of people who lived without constantly checking the clock. Letting go seemed so easy.

I've always preferred looking the other way, pretending nothing matters, and hiding inside some dream or another. But even the most beautiful dream cannot teach you how to live.

I left behind definitive answers and promises of happiness. There were no grand speeches, no farewell worth remembering. Just the wind moving through the trees, the water following its course, and the silence of a house that had been waiting for far too long.

Perhaps there is no right way to live. Perhaps there is nothing to solve, no destination to reach, no finish line worth all that rushing.

Sometimes, the past returns. Sometimes, grief sits at the table and takes the place of someone who is no longer there. And still, the sun rises again. The plants grow. Cats fall asleep on the porch. Someone asks what's for dinner.

Life goes on, not because we've found an answer, but because there are still things to do, people to love, and entire afternoons to waste staring at the river.

Before me lies the life I once wanted. It isn't perfect. It isn't free of memories, fear, or bad days. But it's real, and for the first time, I don't feel the need to run away.

So I'll leave the clock at home, pick up the old fishing rod, and walk down to the riverbank.

For today, I don't need to get anywhere.

For today, this is enough.

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Éxodo 32: 15-28