A compass doesn't choose a direction.
It simply points to one.
That's why it takes so little to confuse it.
Not a storm.
Not an earthquake.
Just a magnet placed close enough.
From the outside, nothing looks broken.
The needle still moves.
It still looks certain.
It still points somewhere.
It just isn't pointing north anymore.
People are often like that.
We don't wake up one morning wanting less truth.
We simply let smaller attractions settle too close.
Approval.
Comfort.
Pride.
Fear.
None of them announce themselves as replacements.
They only ask to stand nearby, long enough for the heart to mistake their pull for its own.
The frightening part is that a bent compass never feels lost.
It feels right.
That's what makes it dangerous.
The farther it travels, the more convinced it becomes that north must have moved.
Truth rarely disappears from a life.
More often, something else quietly becomes stronger.
If this reflection stayed with you a little longer than expected, I'd be grateful to have you with me for the next one.
