sol.ace_r

People often say they’ve lost their way.
But I believe that some paths must be lost before certain things can finally be seen.
That is why the wanderer lives on the road.
With no fixed destination, no signposts set by others—simply drifting in the direction their toes point.

A wanderer is not someone who runs away.
Rather, they are someone who leaves in order to stay.
Not a person who sets out to reach somewhere, but one who walks to draw closer to themselves.
They do not hide from the wounds the world has given them;
they step forward again, carrying those wounds with them.

The more unfamiliar the road, the more clearly the heart reveals its true shape.
Familiarity peels away, loneliness is compacted, and fear travels to the fingertips like the grain of the path itself.
And yet, strangely, in the very center of that loneliness, a person slowly grows firmer.
As if someone were quietly brushing their back and saying,
“You’ve come this far well, all on your own.”

A wanderer is, in truth, someone who keeps asking questions.
Where am I now.
Why is this road calling to me.
What have I lost, and what am I trying to find.
Within those questions, the road gradually changes its shape, and one day, a moment arrives that reflects the heart.
Ah, this was my road.
No one ever told me—yet the temperature of the wind and the feeling in my heel speak the truth.

On the road, the wanderer stops countless times, then walks again.
Stopping is not failure, and walking does not always mean courage.
They move simply because they are alive.
Because breath continues, because the heart has not yet been completely worn down, they place one more step forward.

And eventually, the wanderer comes to understand.
That the end of the road is not a destination, but one’s own pace.
That it is fine to arrive later than anyone else, and fine to take long detours at times.
That wandering and being a wanderer are not so different, and that the two ultimately carry different questions within them.

Whenever I think of a wanderer, the image of a solitary figure seen from behind comes to mind.
Yet, strangely, it does not feel sad.
Because there is always a very small light following that back.
The courage to head somewhere, a heart that has not yet given up, and the faintest will to live a little longer walk beside that person’s shadow for a long, long time.

So a wanderer is not someone who drifts through roads, but someone who crosses the world to find themselves again.
It is fine not to arrive, and fine to turn back.
If they can simply keep walking—that person is already, more than strong enough.