A path unwritten—
Footsteps fading into dust,
The echo remains.
The Overpass Above the Freeway
The city stretched in every direction, a restless machine of motion and noise. Cars passed in steady streams below, their headlights blinking in and out like the slow pulse of something half-asleep. He stood at the railing of an old pedestrian overpass, hands tucked into his coat pockets, watching the world move without him.
This was where he came when he needed to think—where the rush of traffic drowned out his own thoughts, where the wind carried away the weight of unsaid things.
It had started with a question. If there were a biography about you, what would the title be?
It wasn’t the kind of thing you answered right away. Some people had their titles ready—bold, certain, the kind that fit neatly on a hardcover. Others weren’t even sure their story was worth telling.
He wasn’t sure where he fell.
The overpass vibrated slightly as a truck rumbled beneath it, a reminder that time was moving, even when he wasn’t.
The Titles We Pretend to Choose
People like to believe they are writing their own stories, but most of us are just flipping pages in a book someone else started.
- Some inherit their titles. They live lives their parents expected, walk paths that were paved before they were even born.
- Others let their titles be decided by circumstance. A single failure, a single heartbreak, a single moment that becomes the entire story.
- And then there are those who never choose a title at all. They live without writing anything down, leaving behind nothing but empty pages.
But a life without a title is still a book. The world will name it for you, whether you like it or not.
The Myth of a Final Draft
There is no final draft in life.
You are always revising, always rewriting, always finding new ways to tell the same moments. The mistake is thinking that a title must be permanent, that once chosen, it cannot change.
But names are fluid.
- A person who was once “The Failure” can become “The Rebuilder.”
- Someone who lived as “The Runner” might wake up one day as “The One Who Finally Stood Still.”
- And the one who thought their book was over might find there’s still another chapter left to write.
Maybe that’s what wabi-sabi means—not just beauty in imperfection, but acceptance of the story as it unfolds.
Lessons from an Unfinished Biography
- You don’t have to be the same character you were yesterday.
- A title is a reflection, not a prison.
- Leaving a story unfinished is still a kind of ending.
- Not everything has to make sense right now. The meaning comes later.
- You still have time to turn the page.
A gust of wind pushed against him, cold but not unkind. He looked down at the freeway again, at the blur of headlights and motion, at the lives moving forward beneath him.
The city did not stop.
Neither did time.
He exhaled, let his hands slip from his pockets.
Maybe he didn’t need to have a title yet.
Maybe it was enough to know he still had time to write one worth remembering.
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