the tired explorer i followed every strange light that flickered beyond the trees, filled my pockets with constellations, fox bones, half-finished maps, and a few beautiful fires that burned hotter than they looked. when the road disappeared, i drank from mirages and called it a river. when the night grew cold, i mistook lightning for a hearth. now i know: not every shining thing is meant to guide me home. some lights are warnings. some are stars. and somewhere beyond this wilderness, a quieter path is unfolding— one i can walk without setting the map on fire.