As I sat beside the river nonchalantly pondering, I couldn’t help but wonder: why do rivers never get seasick on their way to the ocean? The irony, my dear viewer, is that they take detours through valleys, defy gravity, and yet remain tragically calm amidst torrents and turns. The existential flow of water—what a mockery of linear aspirations!
“Do you have a destination?” I ask the river, somewhat pathetically expecting it to retort with wise aquatic riddles. Instead, it just gurgles. I see myself in its reflection, not as I’d like, but fortuitously distorted. Ah, the river, a silent critic of my journey, mocking the monotony of my predictable paths paved with ambition and indifference.
Here, one finds solace in the relentless movement. Ironically, rivers never stray far from home even when they traverse foreign lands. Perhaps this is why dreamers like me resonate with their rhythmic flow—always departing, always returning, never truly away.