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Walk. Fall. Rise.

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There comes a moment — quiet, weighty, almost imperceptible — when you realise you have chosen. No more lingering at the threshold, no more waiting for certainty to descend like divine instruction. The choice has already been made, even if your hands still tremble. So you step forward. Then again. And then — ah, then you see it — how the ground is uneven, how the air thickens with doubt, how your own footing falters. The path does not open graciously before you; it resists, it tests, it demands.

A mistake. Another. And then another. They come like waves, unrelenting, each one threatening to drag you under. You thought it would be different. That once you found your way, clarity would follow, the world would recognise your purpose, and all would unfold accordingly. Instead, the world remains indifferent, unmoved as you stumble. And so the question arises — perhaps this was never your path. Perhaps you misread the signs, mistook yearning for destiny.

But the path does not speak. It watches. It waits. Unmoved.

You fall. Then again. And yet, with each fall, something shifts — not around you, but within. A subtle thing at first, almost imperceptible. But then, one day, you notice: you are not as you were. The person who first stepped forward was untested, untouched by failure. But now, you have known loss, and in knowing it, you have changed. You have endured. And this knowledge — painful, unflinching, absolute — is what makes the path yours.

There will be disappointment, for expectation is fragile. There will be defeat, for the world does not yield easily. There will be despair, for there will be nights when even your own shadow abandons you. You will ask yourself why you began at all. And the silence will be deafening.

But this is how it is. This is how it has always been.

To walk is to risk. To risk is to live. And to live — truly live — is to lose yourself a thousand times, only to arrive, at last, precisely where you were always meant to be.
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