You keep checking to see if you have arrived.

You haven’t noticed that the checking is the only road left.

Thoughts arise in something. That something is not a thought.

And still you wait.

Look at what waiting needs. A later. A you who reaches it. A moment when the long ache finally lifts.

But the one tired of thoughts is a thought.

The one waiting for the end is made of the same substance it wants to leave.

Look at what is reading this. Not the words. Not the meaning. What the words are landing in.

The quiet aware space they appear inside.

That has never waited for anything.

You keep watching the horizon for something that already passed through you.

It didn’t knock.

It didn’t announce itself.

There was no door.