The Start of the Day
The morning began in limbo. My phone hadn’t charged overnight, and I wondered how I would travel to Lions Rock with barely any battery left. It stirred a restlessness — the sense that my day might unravel before it even began. I decided to go to the gym, needing to move the energy out. One gym was empty, another unfit, but as if by alignment, I came across a shop selling a fast charger and spare battery. Equipped again, I trained, showered, and prepared for the journey.
The Climb to Lions Rock
I caught a bus, transferred at a small town, then switched to a tuk-tuk. Along the way I stopped for food before paying $35 to climb. The ascent was filled with unexpected company: Christos from Greece, a teacher of mathematics to Islamic girls, and later Mathias, whose energy reminded me of a young soul from the Old Earth. Together we walked, shared a smoke, and spoke about life.
At the top, the view stretched endlessly. Lions Rock carried not only the weight of history but also the energy of meeting strangers who, for a brief time, felt like companions.
Souvenirs and Reflections
I bought small brass statues for friends back in the Old Earth. It struck me how even in these gestures, my boundaries waver. When Mathias lit up at the idea of staying with me, I instinctively mentioned Airbnb, feeling guilty for not simply offering hospitality. It was a moment of protection, and yet a moment of stinginess. A reminder of how human I still am — navigating between openness and boundaries.
The Herbal Garden
The tuk-tuk driver suggested a stop at a herbal garden, and I agreed. There, I saw for the first time what cinnamon, black pepper, and other herbs look like as living plants. These everyday spices I had used countless times suddenly revealed themselves as part of the Earth’s living body. I bought a few things, grateful for the encounter.
The Return Journey
The first bus home was crammed, so I surrendered the plan and took a taxi. Two young men, heading out for the night, became my drivers. The money I gave would cover their evening. Above us, thunder cracked and rain poured — a storm lighting the way back.
Evening Vulnerability
By evening I felt tired, raw, and vulnerable. Old doubts surfaced — the ache of never being a true “expert,” the longing for the Old Earth where youth and acceptance felt easier. I caught myself comparing my body now to then, feeling the loss of time.
But I also remembered: I chose the tougher path. Not comfort, not surface-level acceptance, but integrity. And though it isn’t easy, though it means walking with doubt and sacrifice, it is the only path I know how to live.
I appreciate what was. But I cannot return. I walk the path of the New Earth, no matter how heavy it feels.
