Call me Bruce—once important, now just an echo in an empty room.
I was a hunter once, tracking something that left no prints, following whispers through neon-lit streets, through lovers' promises, through the golden cage of ambition.
Every door I opened revealed another hallway.
Each peak conquered unveiled endless ranges, nameless and veiled in shadow.
The more I gathered gold, praise, borrowed warmth, the clearer it became: I was hunting my own ghost.
Then came the stillness. Not surrender, but recognition.
The thing I sought had been watching me from behind my own eyes.
Now in the spaces between heartbeats, in the pause before dawn, I find what was never lost, only waiting for me to stop running.
Check this guy out: Ramana Maharshi
