The wanderer stands at the edge of decision, poised on the precipice of Now. The road sign before him whispers the illusion of choice, as if direction matters, as if movement itself is anything but the grand cosmic joke. The signpost is a lie. The step he hesitates to take is meaningless. Whether he moves forward or turns back, the same question remains unanswered: Who is it that walks?

The alpine lake at his feet mirrors his form, but not his essence. A reflection distorted by ripples—just like his mind, just like his self-image, just like everything he thinks he knows. The water does not care about his hesitation. It has seen wanderers come and go, each believing in their own agency, each convinced they are more than flickering shadows on the screen of impermanence.

Beyond, Mont Blanc looms like the silent witness to eternity, cold and indifferent, standing before human frailty with the quiet patience of something that has seen empires rise and fall, egos bloom and wither, dreams ignite and burn to ash. The mountain does not move, does not doubt, does not choose. And in that stillness, it exposes the fraudulence of the one who does.

The sky, the peaks, the lake—beauty so raw it verges on horror. The terrible, inescapable truth: it will all be gone. The wanderer, his doubts, the reflections, the choice—none of it matters, and yet, here it is. This moment, this scene, this illusion of movement and hesitation and weight. He is a character in a dream, and the dream does not need him to awaken for it to continue.

And still, the path winds forward. The road sign stands. The next step beckons. Not because it leads anywhere, but because there is no other way. The only question left is: Do you see it yet?