End of the rabbit 🐇 hole 🕳.

 I followed the rabbit hole the way people follow rumors—half curious, half convinced it would collapse into nonsense before it ever meant anything. The tunnel was narrow at first, packed with whispers, old maps, broken clocks, and half-truths scratched into the walls by hands that came before mine. Every step forward felt like stepping away from the surface world, away from the noise that says don’t look too hard.

The deeper I went, the quieter it got.

At some point the tunnel stopped sloping downward and began to level out. That’s when I noticed something strange: no more echoes. No more infinite branching paths. Just one straight passage, smooth and worn, like millions of minds had walked this same line, convinced there was more ahead.

And then the tunnel ended.

No explosion. No monster. No secret council waiting in robes. Just a wide, open chamber with a ceiling high enough to see clearly for the first time. In the center sat a mirror—not polished, not glowing—just honest glass.

I realized that was the punchline.

The end of the rabbit hole wasn’t hidden knowledge or forbidden truth. It was responsibility. Everything I’d chased—the patterns, the symbols, the questions—had been pointing back at the one doing the chasing. The tunnel didn’t end because there was nothing left to learn. It ended because learning without wisdom turns into a loop.

Behind me, the tunnel still existed. I could go back and get lost again if I wanted. Many do. It’s comfortable down there, endlessly searching, never arriving.

But standing at the end, I understood something simple and heavy:
Truth doesn’t live at the bottom of the hole. It lives in what you do once you climb back out.

So I turned around, not to run, not to forget—but to carry the light back up, knowing now where the tunnel truly ends.