The Wanderer

Sam stood at a crossroads, head spinning like he’d stumbled into a cosmic maze with no map. He was after something—truth, peace, maybe a divine text message—but had no clue what it was. Paths stretched out, cloaked in mist, their shapes fuzzy, like half-forgotten dreams. “This is worse than picking a pizza topping,” Sam muttered, scratching his head. A small voice inside said, Just move, buddy. But Sam, confused as ever, shuffled toward a path that seemed to glow, hoping it wasn’t a trick.

He tripped into a muddy, grim path—poverty, where life felt raw, like scrabbling with animals for scraps. “This is deep, right?” Sam mumbled, dodging a stray dog. He picked up baggage—beliefs like “suffering’s holy,” biases against comfort. The weight crushed him, and he staggered back to the crossroads, scarred with a stubborn streak that pushed him toward brighter paths. “Mud’s not holy; it’s just gross,” he grumbled, dropping the baggage but feeling its echo.

Next, Sam fell into a loud, flashy path—money, gambling, booze, and sex. Slot machines buzzed, drinks flowed, and shady clubs promised thrills. A slick guy in a shiny suit grinned. “This is the path, man! Bet big, live wild, and—bam!—you’re done.” Sam jumped in, betting his shoes on “lucky” slots, chasing highs. He grabbed sacks of greed (“Money’s everything!”) and wild desires. He crawled out broke, woozy, back at the crossroads, scars of wanting more nudging him toward fancier things. “Worst party ever,” he moaned, shaking off the glitter.

Then he wandered into a glitzy path—name, fame, pride. Fancy folks sipped fancy drinks, flashing status like it was truth. Sam chased the spotlight, collecting baggage like “I’m better than regular people” and biases for high-class vibes. He crashed out, ego sore, back at the start, scars of pride pushing him toward “deeper” stuff. “Fame’s just noise,” he snorted, brushing off the sparkle.

Another path led to religion—temples, mosques, churches, full of chants and smoky air. A robed guy smirked. “This is the path, pal! Follow the rules, love the Leader, and—poof!—you’re set.” Sam dove into prayers, donations, and strict rules, grabbing beliefs like “my way’s the only way” and judgments against “outsiders.” It overwhelmed him, and he stumbled back, frazzled. “Total scam,” he muttered, scars of blind faith pointing to “enlightenment.”

Finally, he hit a weird path—spiritual talk, drug trips, chasing big cosmic answers. Gurus pushed teas and “deep” ideas. Sam ran after cosmic highs, collecting baggage like “my teacher’s the best” and biases against “normal” folks. A guru offered a “Truth App” with paid upgrades; Sam almost fell for it before collapsing, back at the crossroads, scarred with a hunger for “bigger” truths. “Apps don’t fix you,” he sighed, his inner voice shouting, You’re missing it!

One day, Sam’s gut kicked in like an annoyed friend. He picked a path but walked past the traps. Muddy poverty? “No thanks,” he scoffed. Flashy casinos? “Not again,” he laughed. Fancy fame? “Just loud egos,” he smirked. Temples waved holy books; he waved back, “Nope!” Gurus pushed “Cosmic Passes”; Sam danced away. The scars—grit, greed, pride, faith, chasing highs—tugged, but he let them go, feeling lighter. The path got quiet, the air salty, like an ocean was close. “Finally, inner GPS,” he grinned.

The path ended at a plain spot, just a mirror leaning on a rock. Sam looked in, expecting a big reveal. Instead, he saw himself—not just his messy hair and bad choices, but something huge, like an ocean in his eyes, linking him to everything—mud, slots, egos, prayers. “I’m the truth?” Sam chuckled. “I need better socks for this.” The mirror glowed, showing he’d been in the ocean all along, chasing shadows. He laughed, free at last.

This may have been Sam’s last trip, but a new journey started, one beyond words. His edges faded, his steps shone, like he was turning into a mirror, reflecting a truth too big for mud or mantras. He wasn’t just Sam now—more like Kabir, a spark of something vast, free of old scars. Others ran past, carrying beliefs, chasing paths—poverty, parties, fame, or gurus. Sam didn’t preach; he just glowed, a mystery. Did he blend into the ocean? Wander, reflecting light? Who knows. So, what’s slowing your path, reader? Got a mirror handy?

https://youtu.be/7bOpbHsEeEA?si=7eKMxlfigkdMZQ1F

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