You’re not going

My mirror asked again the same question

Are you going to carry it again?

The broken years.

The names that still taste like rust.

The hands that hurt you.

The mouths that lied.

The people who smiled while sharpening knives.

Some days I almost answer.

I almost stop walking.

I almost turn around.

But a faint whisper says don't

Because behind me is a graveyard of unfinished conversations,

betrayals that never received justice,

dreams that were crushed before they learned how to stand,

and people who still gather in corners,

hoping to see me fail.

They watch.

They whisper.

They measure my scars like trophies.

Some are waiting for my collapse.

Some are building it.

Some throw stones and call it advice.

Some sabotage and call it concern.

And for a moment,

I can hear them.

The temptation is always there

Look back.

See what they’re saying.

See who’s laughing.

See who doubted you.

But i know if I do,

the road will disappear beneath my feet.

I remind myself

Don’t turn around.

Don’t look back.

You’re not going that way.

The world behind you is already burning.

Cities argue with themselves.

Truth is auctioned to the highest bidder.

The ground shifts beneath old promises.

Entire nations seem to stagger like exhausted giants,

setting fire to their own foundations while insisting everything is fine.

The sky fills with smoke.

The headlines scream.

The crowd panics.

Everyone points backward.

Everyone wants a witness.

Everyone wants someone to stare into the wreckage.

But the fire is not my destination.

The collapse is not my calling.

I did not survive everything

just to become another spectator.

So I keep walking.

I keep running

One foot.

Then another.

Even when my knees shake.

Even when loneliness becomes a second shadow.

Even when old memories chase me down empty hallways at three in the morning,

wearing familiar faces and speaking with familiar voices.

I know what lives behind me.

I know its names.

I know its hunger.

It wants attention.

It wants fear.

It wants me frozen in place,

studying old wounds until they become my entire identity.

But I am more than what happened.

More than what was taken.

More than what was done.

More than the stories my enemies tell about me.

Ahead of me is something they cannot see.

A horizon.

A purpose.

A version of myself that already exists somewhere in the distance,

waiting patiently while I fight old ghosts.

That future self doesn’t look back.

That future self doesn’t stop for hecklers.

That future self doesn’t ask permission from people who tried to bury them.

That future self simply keeps moving.

So when I feel the breath of old fears on my neck,

when regret taps my shoulder,

when bitterness begs for one last glance,

I repeat the prayer that has carried me farther than anger ever could

Don’t turn around.

Don’t look back.

The darkness behind you has already had its chance.

The people trying to pull you down

have already spent enough years living in your head rent-free.

Let them talk.

Let them scheme.

Let them watch your back disappear into the distance.

Your eyes belong to the road ahead.

The fire can burn.

The walls can fall.

The noise can rise.

But somewhere beyond the smoke

is the life you came here to build.

See the goal.

Keep moving.

And whatever happens

don’t turn around

Don't look back

You're not going that way