"𝙄 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 change of scenery will change me".

I thought to myself as the train rattled on.

"Fuck..."

I sighed against the closed window, fogging up the changing scenery outside...

as though I could blur the world enough to match the outline of my confusion.

"What am I doing with my life?"

I asked the countryside, thinking it would understand the question's rhetorical nature and not give an honest answer,

but as more and more hills kept passing regardless,

the lack of goodbyes felt absolute...

like it was the verdict.

The train soon entered a tunnel, and the heavens caught in its wake,

were swallowed with it—now digested to shadows entertaining my imagination,

even the sky seemed to doubt if it belonged anywhere at all...

"It wasn't a dramatic decision", I reflected.

No one sobbed in the rain.

No suitcases were thrown into the night.

I just… left.

Followed some echo in the ribs that resembled my heartbeat and whispered,

"Elsewhere."

There was a hut in the woods, listed quietly online like it was waiting for someone to find it.

No grand epiphany.

Just an address, an impulse, and a heart too tired to argue.

I packed light. A few books. A worn-out journal.

A pair of shoes that had consistently misread the lines of my palm in circles—

mistaking dizziness for depth, spinning for seeking.

A few seats forward, locals loudly gossiped about the upcoming tourist attraction—

The face of some king carved into the side of a mountain, waiting for us to pass by waving.

"You know some bloody tourists managed to paint a moustache on the rock sculpture",

the man said to his wife, eyes focused on the newspaper his hands held open—

reading headlines pretending to be future.

"Damn it, Harold! That's the whole reason why I made us take the train home!

Put the paper down, it ruined the surprise..."

Brightness subtly returned to the corner of my eye as my window opened to the world outside of the tunnel—

Suddenly, I was eye-to-eye with the surprise that was supposedly ruined.

"In grandeur a face was carved into the mountain, for in delusion it was believed the gravestone wouldn't suffice..."

That was all I could think, passing by the old king...

that and the fact the moustache was surprisingly well-painted.

Between the two thoughts I'd forgotten to wave.

The next stop was my destination.

Someplace I could find my own mountain,

one that wouldn't flinch if I asked it to be my confidant.

Someplace I could finally try and live,

instead of just trying not to disappoint.

Soon I got off the train—

and luckily, I could find the hut before dusk.

It looked just as it had in the pictures—

small, with a slant telltale of how it was slightly offended by the weather.

But it welcomed me.

Not with warmth exactly, instead with a promise of changed scenery.

I told myself I'd only stay a week.

But it's been months now.

And I'm no closer to answers.

Just… deeper into the forest.

I've already carved my face into the side of a mountain close by...

Perhaps the last thing I'll do here, before taking the train back, is paint a moustache on it.

The forest didn't argue.
It just nodded, like a god who's heard this prayer before.

The Origin Metaphor: The Echo We Mistake for a Map

When you've been walking in circles long enough,

even your own footprints begin to look like guidance.

I mistook motion for movement.

Retreat for revolution.

Insight for improvement.

The forest didn't argue.

It just nodded, like a god who's heard this prayer before.

Every night, I sat in the clearing by the hut,

waiting for revelation.

But silence is not wisdom.

And solitude is not proof that you're changing.

Sometimes it's just the absence of an audience

while you perform for yourself.

The Mental Model: The Path Beneath Your Feet

I used to think a life was built through intention.

That if I just wrote enough plans in the margins of my notebook,

eventually the forest would part to reveal some well-lit road.

But the woods don't care for your itinerary.

They only respond to your weight.

To the small, repeated pressures of where you place your feet.

Out here, I started noticing something strange—

how a trail would form beneath me,

not because I'd chosen it,

but because I'd walked it... again.

The path wasn't decided by insight.

It was decided by habit.

Where you step once means little.
Where you step every day becomes the way home.

And so, I started paying closer attention.

To the places I stood when I felt most myself.

To the ways I moved when no one was watching.

To whether I wandered because I was searching…

or avoiding.

Turns out, most of us don't get lost all at once.

We just fail to notice where our feet are leading us,

until the forest closes in

and we realize we've been circling the same place

for years.

What I Could Carry, One Day at a Time

I don't remember why I placed the first stone.

Maybe I just needed to move something that day.

Maybe I needed to feel like I still could.

I set it down near the edge of the clearing.

Left it there without thinking.

A week passed.

Then I added another—

not because anything important had happened,

but because I got out of bed

and made coffee

without resenting the quiet.

That became the pattern.

One small stone

for every day I didn't give up on being here.

Not for success.

Not for insight.

Just for staying.

The pile isn't much.
But it's real.
And some days, that's more than I can say for me.

There are mornings I add a stone and feel nothing.

Others, my hand shakes a little—

like some part of me knows

this is the only proof I have

that I didn't disappear.

No audience.

No lesson.

Just a few stones

marking the days I didn't run.

And somehow,

that's started to feel like a kind of progress.

The Return of the King's Moustache

Sometimes I revisit the mountain.

The one carved with grandeur

and humbled by graffiti.

The moustache is fading,

but still there—

braver than the statue beneath it.

I've thought about painting another one.

Not out of mockery.

But as an offering

to the version of me that once believed the problem was the crowd.

It wasn't.

It was me—

thinking applause would fill a hole

that only silence had the dimensions to map.

The Gesture That Didn't Save Me

The shoes I brought here

have begun to grow moss at the seams.

They no longer correct me when I get lost.

They simply pause.

And in those pauses,

I no longer ask for meaning.

I just breathe.

And sometimes,

in the stillness between footsteps—

I almost remember how to play.

I didn't come here to change.
I came here to be unobserved long enough
to stop performing grief.

And now,
I'm not healed—
but I've stopped narrating my wounds
like they're proof of a plot.

The hut doesn't ask if I'll leave.

The mountain doesn't care if I wave next time.

And the forest—

God bless it—

never asked me why I came.

It just let me stay

until I forgot the question.

Moonside Journal [Action Exercise]

Complete this dialogue with your deepest knowing:

"The path I've been walking without choosing is __________.

When I pay attention to where my feet naturally lead me, I notice I'm walking toward __________.

The clearing I keep circling, avoiding the real journey, is __________.

One small stone I could place today, just for staying, would be __________."

Write in the space between motion and movement. Let your feet speak first, before your mind can redirect. The most honest paths are carved by where you walk when you think no one is watching.

Until the Forest Nods Again

The Moonlit Archives is for those who've learned that the answer isn't always in the hut in the woods. Sometimes it's in the path you carve by simply walking. Each week, I offer you tools to notice where your feet are leading you.

• Subscribe Now — Your Path Is Waiting to Be Walked
• Share This With Someone Lost in Their Own Forest
• Read Past Issues Before the Trail Goes Cold

What path are you carving without choosing? Reply. Every message reaches me, especially those written in the space between wandering and walking.

How did you find today's mental model?

• [Great] – This framework will immediately improve how I notice my patterns
• [OK] – Interesting concept, but need more examples
• [Not Useful] – This wasn't relevant to my challenges

Just hit reply with your choice—it takes 2 seconds and helps me tailor future editions to your needs.

Until our paths cross again,
Neil