I walk.
Not because I must, but because I have come to crave it. The harbor roads have become my allies—silent companions that never ask but always offer. The railings, the asphalt, the shifting river, and the glow of streetlights—they greet me as familiarly as an old friend.
Without intending to, I have filled my life with rituals. The first deep breath upon waking. The careful pour of coffee, its warmth wrapping around my fingers in the early morning hush. The quiet race to rise before the sun, because the first light holds a kind of magic I do not want to miss.
Yes, I am a morning person. Always have been. The first hour shapes the rest of my day. But the end of the day—ah, that belongs to the walk.
Walking is not just movement; it is a conversation with myself. As my feet meet the pavement, thoughts emerge from the hidden corners of my subconscious. The rhythm pulls them forward, invites them into the light. Sometimes they arrive fully formed. Other times, they flicker in and out, like ghostly figures in the distance—glimpses of something I know but do not yet understand.
Each step is a connection—to the city, to the air, to time itself. And as the world moves, I move with it.