When does the bar stop moving? Or rather, when do I stop picking up the bar and hurling it as far away from me as possible? I often mull over how far I've come and the choices I've made. I weigh how much of it was sheer luck and how much of it was my own stubborn will. Even at the mountain's peak, the pitch-black cave I crawled from will still be visible; nevertheless, I will be able to see the sunrise.





















Photograph from: Shinichiro Saka on Flickr