The path unwinds, a ribbon of grey against the stark,
winter-stripped trees. They told me it was called
Philosophenweg, Philosopher's Way. As if thought
itself had carved these stones, worn them smooth
with centuries of contemplation.
I imagine them here, those ghosts of great minds,
their breath misting in the frigid air. Nietzsche,
pacing, muttering about the abyss. And Heidegger,
hunched over, seeking Being in the frost-covered bark.
But you are not here to chase the ghosts of dead men.
You are here to walk.
Each footfall a question, each inhale a tentative answer.
The silence isn't empty, it's a symphony of whispers,
a chorus of possibilities. Can you hear it?
This path, it doesn't offer answers. It offers space.
Space to breathe, to ache, to question. To exist.
Walk on.
Let the rhythm of your steps become the cadence
of your own, unique philosophy.
There is no right answer,
only the echo of your footsteps
fading into the vastness.
And that, my friend,
is enough.
Philosophenweg