The Traveller of Moments

Time is such a strange thing.

Sometimes a lifetime feels too short.

Sometimes a single moment feels like a lifetime.

Like a distant, nameless planet

seen from far away,

beautiful because we cannot reach it,

doesn't the past look the same

when seen from where we stand today?

And still,

I want that moment back.

But what is time, really?

An illusion?

A riddle?

Isn't our life the same,

something we keep running after,

trying to solve?

From one moment to another,

like a nameless traveller

walking some forgotten road.

But does a traveller ever stop

in the middle of the journey?

Ever turn around

and look behind?

For what?

For whom?

For an answer?

Or simply for another moment?

An answer may explain

the purpose of a life,

but a moment

is a chapter of it.

If there is a road,

perhaps the traveller has no choice

but to keep walking.

A passenger aboard

the boat of moments

moves steadily toward

the end of the road.

But can the traveller know

that a road never announces

when it is about to disappear?

That every ending

has a beginning,

and perhaps no ending at all?

Behind it,

only memories remain,

in shades of black and white.

And the traveller disappears.

Then, with a new morning,

another traveller sets out

along another road,

beginning a journey

toward their own ending.

But what keeps them moving?

The hunger for an answer?

Or simply

the hope of another moment?