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LAKE OF MUD

The answers. They were there, written down so neatly, every detail you needed, every truth you sought. But in a moment of carelessness, the paper slipped from your grasp, drifting down into the lake. The water, once calm, was now murky, the words hidden beneath a veil of swirling silt.

You couldn’t leave it there. No, you had to find it. This was too important. So, you splashed into the water, searching, churning up more mud with every frantic movement. The lake grew darker. Still, you wouldn’t stop. You believed in action, in progress, in effort. Surely, the harder you worked, the sooner you’d recover what you had lost.

But the answers remained hidden. The harder you tried, the farther they seemed. So you devised a plan. You gathered engineers, investors, and thinkers from across the world. Together, you built a machine—an extraordinary contraption to clear the water and retrieve the answers. It was massive, complex, and required constant maintenance. People splashed and worked endlessly to keep it running, the water roiling under their movements.

You felt pride. Surely, no one else could have accomplished this. The machine was a marvel, a testament to your ingenuity. And though the water never cleared, you told yourself you were close. Luck, you believed, was preparation meeting opportunity, and you had prepared more than anyone. You would succeed—eventually.

Years passed. The machine grew larger, more intricate, more demanding. The water grew no clearer, yet you pressed on. Until one day, exhaustion overtook you, and in your sleep, you dreamed.

In the dream, you saw a sage, seated by the lake. They radiated calm, their eyes serene, their posture effortless. You approached, eager to ask the question that burned within you: "How do I clear the muddy water to find my answers?"

The sage said nothing. They simply looked at you, unblinking. Minutes passed, then hours. You grew impatient. "There must be a better way!" you exclaimed. But the sage remained still, their silence maddening.

You woke from the dream, shaking off its strangeness. There was no time for stillness. You returned to the machine, to the splashing, to the work. Years turned into decades, and still, the answers eluded you.

Then, one day, a snake lurking in the water struck you. The bite was swift and final. As your body fell, your spirit rose, leaving behind the murky lake and the endless toil.

And there, on the other side, you saw the sage once more. They sat by the lake, which now shimmered with perfect clarity. The water was still. At the bottom, you saw the paper of answers, every word visible, untouched, pristine.

A tear slipped from your eye, not from regret but from realization. The sage’s silence had been the answer all along. The water would have cleared itself—if only you had stopped. If only you had trusted in stillness.

In your relentless effort, you had clouded what was already there. The answers were never lost. They had been waiting for the mud to settle, for the water to calm, for you to finally let go.




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