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For ten days, I have sat beneath the ancient bodhi tree, my legs folded, my breath slow as the turning of the seasons. The villagers whisper that truth can be found in sacred texts or in the words of masters, but I have learned otherwise. Truth is not given it is uncovered, like a buried stream heard only when all other waters run silent. On the third day, the hunger faded. On the fifth, the world dissolved into a river of shadows. And on the eighth, the visions came not as dreams, but as memories of truths I had always known but forgotten. I saw crumbling temples hidden in mist, their walls carved with tongues long silenced. I felt the weight of scrolls, their ink faded but not lost, whispering secrets to those who would listen. And beneath it all, a voice, neither kind nor unkind, spoke without sound: Truth is not a thing to be held, but a path to be walked. You will learn what others have forgotten because you will first remember what you have always known. When I opened my eyes on the tenth dawn, my bones ached, my throat was dust, but my path was clear. Truth had shown itself not as an answer, but as a question that would unfold with every step. I stood, brushed the leaves from my robe, and took my first step beyond the Hongsalmun walkway. The wind sighed through the trees, carrying the scent of distant lands. I would wander. I would remember. And in the spaces between breaths, between footsteps, I would listen for truth, I now knew, was not behind me or ahead, but beneath each moment, waiting. Wanga | |