Against Doubt

Belief is spoken of too easily,
worn thin by repetition.
They say it can move mountains.
Perhaps.
But this much is certain:
doubt builds them stone by stone.

Doubt is patient.
It raises ridges where paths once lay,
adds weight to every step,
teaches the eye to measure only the height
and forget the climb.

Yet even a mountain shaped by doubt
remains something that can be ascended.
If not alone, then with another’s shoulder nearby.
If not to the summit, then far enough
to see the world change beneath you.

But carry doubt as you climb
and the slope lengthens.
The peak retreats.
The mountain grows in proportion
to the voice that says this will not work.

As long as you remain on the path,
the story is unfinished.
The clock still holds its breath.
There are innings unplayed,
serves not yet struck,
days waiting quietly on the calendar.
There are answers you have not tried
because you have not yet arrived at the question.

Quitting does something final.
It ends time.

It seals the record.

It names the moment before the answer
as the last one that mattered.

Loss can come honestly;
from limits, from chance, from forces larger than will.
But doubt is not such a force.
It is a choice disguised as realism.

You may be outmatched.
You may never reach the summit.
But let the cause be weather, or distance, or fate;
never the voice that convinced you
the climb was already over.