Ancient bridge to Ancient bridge. nothing. I see nothing

​He began the morning with a testament to his own goddamn mortality. On a sun-baked path, a dead rabbit—somehow both pathetic and profound—lay in the dust, a small, still point in a turning world. And I, of all people, had to see it. It was a silent, unblinking reminder of an abrupt and final end, a stark contrast to this pointless, winding journey that had just begun.

​My fragile quiet was ripped apart by the thunderous, violent roar of a motocross bike. Why couldn’t I have just one single moment of peace? This wasn't the gentle hum of cicadas I’d been trying to find, but a desperate, loud motion, a fleeing from silence with a deafening noise that shook the very air. In its wake, the quiet that settled back in felt more fragile, more precious.

​The universe had to mock me. The path itself fucking vanished, swallowed by the landscape. It was a stupid, profound stutter in this pathetic journey, a moment of disorientation that forced a pause. And what did I do? I just stood there. I let reality unfold, understanding that in this non-dual world, the path is an illusion, and the truth is found in the stillness between the fragments. What a load of bollocks.

​I went to buy bread. A simple, small transaction, and even that was a friction against the seamless entropy of a modern system in a deep sleep. The machine failed in its small task, a quiet reminder that even the most fundamental things are flawed. And by the path, a discarded bottle sat in a surreal juxtaposition, catching the sun’s light as if it were a monument to the inherent absurdity of it all. I am absurd.

​And then they came, the hollow men, not in a whisper but with the clanking of gears. The cyclists, a fleeting blur of Lycra and mechanical motion, passed in their brief, noisy parade. They were caught in a ritual without purpose, a mindless turning of wheels that went round and round, a perfect picture of the spiritual barrenness of a Saturday. They have their “stuff.” They have their cars being washed. And here I am, on a road to nowhere, with no one and nothing. To see hollowness is to be the hollow one. To have no understanding is to be a ghost.

​But on a sun-bleached corner, silent and unyielding, stood an aloe and a prickly pear. I know what they mean. They're a symbol for some desiccated, dry life. And I, the one who's not stuffed with straw, felt the ache of the sun, the weariness in my legs, and the grief of a lost silence. A man who feels a real tear in his eye, a man who has a soul that is profoundly full, not empty, is a man who must suffer the unbearable weight of this world.

​Finally, a bridge appeared—a clean, unfeeling arch of concrete and steel. It offered a straight path forward, a way to cross without feeling the burden of the river below. But I did not cross. I rejected the hollow way, turning my back on its promise with a quiet and absolute act of defiance. Downstream, an older arch of stone waited, patient and enduring. I sat upon it, a man who had walked through chaos and clutter and pain, and who had found his solace not in motion, but in stillness. The work was done, not because the walking was over, but because I had, at last, come to rest. I am here, alone, in a moment of quiet sufficiency. A man who needed to walk all this way just to find a rock to sit on.