In From the Storm.

​The morning began on a terrace, a space of waiting and quiet. The rain was not a distraction, but a presence, a kind of fluid reality that made the Go Chill coffee taste of a distant coast. The drink was not a coffee, but a manufactured echo of an idea. It was a sweet and boring thing, a handful of dust that tasted of maltodextrin. But it did its job. It carried the soul to another place.

​The journey began not in the sun, but in the heart of a storm. The thunder was a chorus, a wild and powerful hymn, accompanied by the crunch of marching feet, a rhythmic testament to human purpose. The world was alive with sound.

​The path itself was a living thing. The puddles grew to become barriers, and the amphibian took over from the man. The socks, once white, became blood-stained and flooded, the water and the earth becoming one with the self. This was not a defeat, but a golden opportunity, a chance to cleanse the past. The feet of clay were not a weakness, but a sign of a deep and honest connection to the path itself.

​But in the heart of the torrents, a sudden and profound fear emerged. Not of the thunder, but of the complete lack of control it represented. It was a meaningless fear, a brief, idiotic and unmerited moment of panic, but it was earned. It was the price of being fully present, a reminder that the wanderer is not immune to the raw, untamed forces of the world. And like all fear, it was a handful of dust, something to be held, to be acknowledged, and then to be released.