I do not speak for others.
There is only this voice—
returning, uncertain of itself,
still learning its own measure.

In sorrow, and in the brief mercy of joy,
in the falling and the rising again,
there is one road—

not chosen once and forgotten,
but chosen again with every step.

The rest—
faces that pass without settling,
voices that rise and dissolve

like light scattered on moving water,
broken, briefly gathered, broken once more—

they do not remain.

Or if they remain, they remain differently—
as something carried within.

For there are many within me.
Not summoned. Not released.

Traces of roads once walked,
echoes not fully faded,
presences that refuse to become absence.

And so I go on—
not with certainty,
not with any clean conclusion,

but with the quiet stubbornness of motion.

In silence.
In utterance.
In fragments of half-remembered song,
in what the dream leaves behind
when the dream is gone.

The road is not only ahead of me—

it is beneath my feet, within my chest,
and sometimes behind,

a pattern glimpsed but not possessed,
a direction that needs no map
because it is already the walking.

I walk in the rain—
and the rain enters,
not as weather passing through,
but as a slow falling
that finds its way inside.

I walk in the light—
and the light stays,
not as brightness only,
but as something that takes up residence,
that does not leave when the day turns.

And so the outer and the inner
learn to trade places—

until the line between them
loses its name.

There is no end I can point to.
No turning that closes anything.
No arrival that answers the question
the road has been asking all along.

Only this—
a continuing.

A road I did not choose so much as receive.

A road I cannot possess,
and cannot leave.

A road that is lived—

and in the living,
goes on living.

— TaeHun Yoon, May 6, 2026