I’m on the road that leads to all ends. I have been for some time. On this road lies an odyssey of dust and dreams where every traveler’s footsteps echo with the whispers of infinity. It’s a path woven with the threads of many destinies, a highway spanning the breadth of existence, touching horizons where the sun kisses the earth goodnight and greets it again at dawn.
I’m on this road. My eyes reflect the cosmos. My feet treading the fine line between wandering and wondering. The road stretches out, a ribbon through the heartlands of the soul, winding through the valleys of thought and over the mountains of imagination. It’s the road less travelled, and yet it feels worn out by the journeys of countless pilgrims searching for the sacred and the profane, the ordinary and the extraordinary.
To be on this road is to be a part of a grand narrative, yet apart from it, writing my own story with each step. The road that leads to all ends is life itself—unpredictable, beautiful, treacherous, and profound. It promises nothing but offers everything: adventure, fear, love, loss, discovery. It’s where the heart learns to dance to the rhythm of the landscapes it traverses.
Travelling this road, I collect souvenirs not of things but of experiences—each one a story, a poem, a piece of the puzzle that is me. There are crossroads marked by decisions, milestones defined by moments of clarity, and signposts written in the language of the stars, guiding me onward, ever onward.
The beauty of the road to all ends is that it is both literal and metaphorical. You might find yourself upon the asphalt veins that crisscross the land, or you might be meandering through the pathways of your own inner geography. Every end on this road is a beginning, every sunset a prelude to a new sunrise.
As the road unfolds, I realise that all ends are merely illusions, mirages on the horizon line where the sky’s blue fingers clasp the earth’s green hands. The road is endless, and I am eternal, a traveller whose journey is measured not in miles or years but in the breadth of my consciousness.
It’s here, in the quiet moments of travel, that I understand the road is not something I conquer but something I become—a living map etched in the lines of my face, written in the stories I carry.
So, my friend, how will the road shape you, and how will you shape the road?
