How Long I Will Travel to Find the End of Me

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I set out on a journey without a map,

a quest to find the place where I am whole,

to reach the end of myself,

beyond the horizons of doubt and fear,

beyond the borders I’ve built with walls and words,

seeking the truth hidden deep within my soul.


Each step is a question, every mile a mirror,

reflecting fragments I’ve yet to gather,

pieces of me scattered in the wind,

trying to piece together the puzzle of my existence.

I chase the horizon where I believe the end resides,

but it always recedes-an elusive promise

that teases me with the possibility of completion.


I’ve worn faces like shadows,

tried on masks to hide the raw truth,

pretending to be someone I thought I should be,

but the road whispers secrets,

unveiling layers I never knew I had-

hidden fears, silent hopes, unspoken wounds,

all waiting to be seen, acknowledged, embraced.


The journey isn’t measured in distance,

but in the moments I almost turned back,

in breaths I chose to hold,

when surrender seemed the easier road,

but something within kept me moving forward,

a voice persistent, urging me to see.


I chase the horizon where I think I’ll find my end,

but it always recedes, a teasing promise,

reminding me that the end is just a beginning-

a cycle spun by my own longing and curiosity.

Every step brings me closer to the truth,

yet every mile also reveals that the truth

is more complex, more layered, than I imagined.


The farther I travel,

the more I realize:

the end of me isn’t a place to arrive at,

but a space to discover I’ve been here all along-

in the quiet moments, in the silent tears,

in the laughter I’ve hidden away.

It’s in the cracks and crevices of my soul

where the real journey begins.


In the silence between footsteps,

in the quiet of my own thoughts,

I begin to understand:

the journey is the destination.

The search for the end is really a search for myself-

a peeling back of layers, a shedding of illusions,

until I find the core that remains unchanged.


No final stop, no last chapter-

only a continuous unfolding,

a spiral into the very heart of my being,

where the end is also the start,

where I become whole by losing the need to arrive.

The journey is endless, beautiful, necessary-

a dance with my own becoming.


So I keep walking,

not to escape,

but to find the part of me

that’s hidden in the shadows of my own soul,

the piece I’ve overlooked, the truth I’ve avoided.


How long will I travel?

Until I realize I’ve been home all this time,

until I embrace the truth:

the end of me is just the beginning of being truly free-

free to be, free to become,

free to love and live without fear,

until the journey itself becomes the destination.

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