26/02/2025
"The Man Who Built Rivers"
There was a man who built rivers. Not with machines, not with tools—just his own hands, his own will, his own hunger to create something that would last. He would wake before the sun, kneel upon the dry earth, and carve. His fingers bled, his back ached, but he kept going, believing the river he shaped would bring life.
And it did.
The first river he built was magnificent. Water rushed through its veins, glistening under the morning light. Birds came to drink, trees leaned in to watch their reflections. But soon, the water turned dark. The river, meant to give life, began swallowing it instead. The land cracked, the air grew heavy, and the man saw his creation for what it had become—a mistake.
So he left.
He found another land, untouched and pure. He promised himself this time would be different. He studied the soil, listened to the wind, learned the language of the earth. And when the river finally flowed, it was clear, fresh, everything he had dreamed.
But then the people came.
They built their homes along its banks, filled it with their waste, bent it to serve their needs. And once again, the man watched as his river became something he never intended.
So he left again.
Years passed. Rivers were built and abandoned. Dreams, once fierce, faded into something quieter. One day, older and heavier with the weight of knowing, he stood before a barren land—empty, untouched. His hands, once restless to carve, now hung still.
This time, he did not build.
Not because he had stopped wanting to. Not because the fire inside him had died. But because he had learned that not all rivers deserve to be carved. Some only look like they will bring life, when all they really do is drown the things he holds dearest.
So he made peace—not the kind that feels soft and gentle, but the kind that sits in your chest like a stone. The kind that aches, that lingers, that whispers at night—reminding you of what could have been, but also of why it never should be.
And with that weight, he turned away. Not lighter. Not freer. But knowing he had done what needed to be done.
Because sometimes, walking away is the hardest thing you’ll ever do—and the most important.
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