The older I get
the less I trust certainty.
It talks too smooth,
smells like cologne and fear.
life coaches, saints, hustlers—
shortcuts to somewhere better.
But the soul doesn’t do shortcuts.
Montaigne said,
Que sais-je?
What do I know?
He wasn’t winning.
He was weathering.
Knowing yourself—
no steps,
no course,
just a road through fog and memory.
No one can walk it for you.
Not the healer,
not the preacher,
not the voice in your ear.
You walk it barefoot,
through cold and heat,
carrying sometimes a child,
sometimes a ghost,
sometimes nothing but yourself.
There’s no seminar for that.
No app.
No hack.
Just the road.
Your shadow.
And the sound of your breath
when the noise fades.
What do I know?
Not much.
But I know this—
whoever says life is easy
has never bled on the way.