The waterfall

 Johann loved the waterfalls. Every weekend, he would sit on the same moss-covered rock, watching the water rush and tumble, its endless motion both chaotic and graceful. The townspeople often chuckled at his habit. "What does he see there?" they whispered. "Day after day, just staring at water."

But Johann wasn’t just staring. He was learning.

His mind, like most, was rarely still. Memories of past mistakes gnawed at him, words he shouldn’t have said, chances he hadn’t taken. And the future? It loomed like a storm cloud: uncertain, vast, full of things he could not control. But the waterfall knew none of this. It simply was. It did not cling to the rocks it had carved centuries ago, nor did it fear the sea it would eventually join. It flowed, moment by moment, with a force that was neither hurried nor hesitant.

One evening, as the sun painted the falls in gold, an old traveler joined him. "You come here often," the stranger observed.

Johann nodded. "I’m trying to understand something."

The old man smiled. "The water doesn’t think. It doesn’t regret or worry. It just falls."

Johann frowned. "But people aren’t water."

"No," the traveler agreed. "But we can choose where to rest our attention."

The next morning, Johann returned. This time, when his mind wandered to yesterday’s regrets or tomorrow’s fears, he let them pass like leaves carried by the current. He focused instead on the roar of the falls, the cool mist on his skin, the unshakable now.

The waterfall hadn’t changed. But Johann had.

He still visited every weekend, not to escape his thoughts, but to remember: life, like water, moves best when we flow with it, not against it.