Longitudes Unclaimed

Chasing what always recedes.

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The horizon is the oldest invitation I know.

You walk toward it expecting it to change—expecting that, eventually, the line will resolve into something you can stand on. But no matter how far you go, it stays the same distance away. Always just out of reach, always promising that if you keep moving, you’ll finally arrive somewhere definitive.

It’s easy to think that if you can’t ever get closer, you’re failing. That an unreachable point means you’re moving for no reason.

But there’s a kind of motivation in chasing something you’ll never catch.

The movement itself becomes the point. The slow accumulation of perspective, the small adjustments in direction you wouldn’t have made if you’d believed you were already there. When the goal stays ahead of you, it keeps you alive to possibility.

Over time, I’ve learned to let the horizon remain distant.

There’s peace in allowing some things to stay undefined. In not demanding that every effort ends in arrival. Sometimes it’s enough to keep going because going feels honest—because you like who you are when you’re in motion.

Goals don’t always need to be destinations.

Sometimes they’re just directions—ways to orient yourself for a while, until you’re ready to shift again.

Some things are meant to stay just out of reach. That’s what keeps them worth pursuing.