The river moves at its own pace, indifferent to your presence, yet welcoming in a way that feels almost sacred. You stand knee-deep in the cool water, casting and recasting, watching the line unfurl in smooth arcs before settling on the surface. Each cast is a lesson in patience, in precision, in letting go.
It’s not about the fish. It never really was.
It’s about the rhythm, the way the water speaks in whispers and ripples, the way the world narrows down to this moment—just you, the river, and the fly dancing on the current. It’s about the feel of the rod in your hand, the steady pull of the water against your legs, the silence that isn’t really silence at all.
Life is like this, too. You show up, you put in the effort, but you don’t always get the result you expect. Sometimes, it’s not about the catch; it’s about standing in the stream, feeling the pulse of something older than time, and knowing you are exactly where you need to be.
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