Tower In The Dream
It was a dream.
Three people traveled together, each with their own secret intention, needing to complete the return journey within four hours. There was only one road—the winding path buried deep in memory, crossing mountains and forests, fording rivers, like a life already charted out: narrow, twisting, yet claiming to be the only way.
The one in front suddenly accelerated—part pioneer, part bait—rushing toward the edge of the countryside. Ahead rose a massive ridge, ten meters tall, standing upright like a tower wall carved from the earth. High-voltage lines hung on both sides, humming like a warning; below, the river and fields formed a real abyss, waiting for an impatient step to fall through.
The ridge was so steep it bordered on despair. Near its base, the step rose vertically two meters high, like an unyielding decree demanding that the climber abandon balance, leap beyond the self, and earn only an illusion of passage.
The first runner had already vanished. Had he truly crossed over—or found another way around? His silhouette blurred into mist, a faint smirk lingering on his lips, like a mirage posing as triumph in the air.
The second traveler believed the illusion, charged upward, and struck the silent wall—slipping instantly, splashing mud and water, his fall echoing softly—the price of passion colliding with reality.
I stood before the steps, fingers brushing the coarse wall of earth, knowing it was never my gate to pass. Around me, voices urged in haste: “Jump!” Further away, others’ cold laughter buzzed like static, mocking my hesitation—calling me foolish to challenge the iron wall.
But I had long known of another path—steadier, quieter—only I had been swept along by circumstance, cornered onto this false road. Everything before me was a stage of illusion, a trap for the impatient.
I lingered for a moment and finally understood: true courage is not in the leap, but in the turn.
So I turned back without looking, jogging toward that uncelebrated, unnoticed path that quietly led forward. Behind me, false shadows and muddy endings wavered in the mist like wordless gravestones. Ahead, the road curved but was real—a river vein of light beneath the heart, flowing gently onward.
6:00 a.m.