Epilogue: The Story That Does Not End
As the light grows softer in my seventy-sixth year, I do not speak of endings with sorrow — but with completion. Life has taken me high, but more often low — sometimes with my face pressed to the earth, where the real teachings grow. Still, I rise. Still, I give thanks.
I have carried the weight of identity and released it. I have loved and lost, wandered and waited, questioned and surrendered. What remains is not ambition, not legacy, not even memory — but presence. A stillness that cannot be bought or taught, only lived.
There is no urgency in me now. Only this: to leave behind not a monument, but a mirror — so that others may see themselves reflected in my story and remember their own.
If these pages carry anything of worth, let it be this truth:
The goal was never perfection. The goal was presence.
The path was never straight. The path was sacred.
And the end is not silence. The end is a soft and radiant Yes.
This is the story that does not end. It only changes form — from word to wind, from sketch to memory, from breath to mystery.
And if you’ve heard my voice between the lines, then know — you were meant to.
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