Maybe Tomorrow

It rained last night. It was unremarkable, a resigned rain—one of those that makes no fuss but only persists. The cold seeped into the city’s corners and settled into the silence like an uninvited guest. I don’t know if it was winter saying farewell or just one of those nights when everything feels suspended, and I’m in no hurry to move forward.

I spent some time watching the wet street. When voices fade and the world diminishes during the night shift, my thoughts occupy all the space. My mind reaches for memories stored away in some forgotten corner. I remembered a dirt road I walked as a boy—the red dust rising, trees bending in the wind, and a horizon without promises. I wandered there without knowing where it led or having a set destination, and I think I was never more in control of myself.

Then the years passed, bringing learning, the weight of knowledge, and the maturity that teaches us to read maps and avoid pointless paths. They say growing up means understanding direction better, but sometimes I wonder if it’s just losing the taste for getting lost. We trade the freedom of chance for footnotes of caution, paving our trails with rules and certainties. In the end, what they call maturity might be a fear of making mistakes disguised as wisdom.

There’s comfort in following a path already laid out. Sidewalks are built to prevent stumbles; signs tell us when to turn. But at what cost? Walking where everyone else walks gradually leads to forgetting what it means to walk truly. If a track is before you, it means someone has already traveled it. And if someone has already traveled it, it is not your path.

Maybe that’s what unsettled me last night as the rain traced small rivers down the pavement—the feeling that I’ve been moving forward for a long time without ever stopping to ask if this is the right way. Days pass, gestures repeat, and before you realize it, what was once a choice becomes a habit, and habit turns into a labyrinth with no exit because there was never an entrance.

Perhaps that’s what aging is: realizing it’s been too long since we last walked without a destination. Getting lost is a privilege of youth because only those still searching can lose their way.

I stood there for a while, looking at the empty street. I felt the urge to step outside, splash through the puddles, and walk without concern for where I was going. But I glanced at the clock, pulled my coat tighter, and continued my round. Maybe tomorrow.