I keep walking.

Not forward, just… on.

Like a cursor blinking through rooms that call themselves home

and mean “temporary shelter.”

I’ve arrived at places I never believed in:

cities made of overheard laughter,

kitchens that smelled like mornings I didn’t live.

They held me the way a coat rack holds a coat politely.

Sorrow signed the lease.

Happiness visited on a tourist visa.

I keep walking

toward the promised address.

Not heaven, not rescue, just a room where the walls don’t echo my name back wrong.

A place to file grief under “archived”

and set joy to “do not disturb.”

When sadness knocks, I move.

When happiness sits, I hold still.

Motion is my anesthesia.

Staying is how the feeling learns my face.

If I’m lucky, I can walk it clean.

Sand the edges to blank.

Sometimes I find a chair that fits.

Then the ledger opens:

Every saved sorrow posts to balance, all at once, turning the light into evidence.

My small brightness converts back to loss.

So I get up. Again.

Time doesn’t pause.

It only passes.

My hourglass eats its own throat and smiles.

I keep walking because the map pretends there’s a door,

and because I don’t know what I’ll do if it isn’t a lie.

Should I stop?

I don’t know how to.

Stopping feels like speaking out loud.

Walking is quieter,

and I have always been a quiet way to survive.