The young and old man

I understand now that this is the way

I wrote this last night, I understand now that this is the way, but sadness does overtake me - this beautiful sadness.

As the young man grew older, he began to realize that each step he had taken - every frustration, every moment of confusion - had shaped him into the person who could finally understand the consciousness he had long sought. He could see the younger version of himself, filled with longing and the burning desire to know what it all meant. He wanted so badly to tell that boy what he now knew - that the search itself was part of the unfolding, that every moment of not understanding was laying the groundwork for the realization to come.

But the older he grew, the more he understood the paradox. How could he explain to his younger self that consciousness wasn’t something he would one day find, but something that was already present, something he had always been immersed in without realizing it? How could he communicate that the grasping, the wanting, was part of the very illusion that kept it hidden?

There was a sadness in that recognition - this invisible border between seeking and knowing. Once crossed, it felt so obvious, so simple. But standing on the other side, he knew there was no way to bring his younger self across with words. The young man would have to take each step for himself. The truth was there, patiently waiting, just as it had been for him. The only way to see it was to stop searching, to realize that the awareness he was chasing was already his.

And so, he watched with quiet compassion, knowing that one day, the boy would understand. But until then, the journey would go on, each step necessary, each frustration a hidden guide leading him home.