Post by Adesanya Ayotola (@adesanya_ayotola)

THE INN OF PASSING TRAVELERS

We arrived as travelers at an inn we did not build, carrying nothing but a fragile lantern of breath. Yet somewhere between the front door and the final gate, we began fencing the gardens, engraving our names on the walls, arguing over rooms we were never meant to own.

The mountains watched in silence.
They had seen kings crowned with golden sunlight, and beggars wrapped in winter's dust. Both left before dawn, their footprints erased by the same indifferent rain. Still we gather pebbles from the river, calling them treasures, while the river laughs and keeps flowing. We measure ourselves by the height of our towers, forgetting that every tower is only a staircase for dust returning to dust.

What strange amnesia has captured the human heart?
The oak does not boast to the grass. The ocean does not envy the clouds. The stars do not compete for space in the heavens. Only man, a guest in a borrowed room, spends his nights counting keys he cannot keep.

Perhaps life was never a marketplace where worth is traded, but a banquet where experience is shared.
Perhaps wealth is not ownership, but stewardship. Not the cup in our hands, but whether another thirsts beside us.

For when the Keeper of the Inn calls our name, none shall carry away their titles, their applause, or their carefully guarded fences.Only the echoes will follow
the burdens we lifted, the wounds we healed, the tables we widened, the breaths we turned into songs for weary travelers and then we will discover what the mountains knew all along: that the greatest among us was never the ones who owned the most rooms but the one who made the inn feel most like home.

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