Victory tastes sweeter with Jupiter’s touch

Victory calls, but its voice is uncertain. We climb toward it, hands grasping, hearts pounding. The summit gleams ahead—yet what waits at the top? A crown of gold, or a wreath of thorns?

The world measures success in shining trophies, in numbers that climb and never stop. But numbers are hungry. They do not fill, they do not soothe. A prize is only a prize until it is owned—then, it is only a thing.

Still, we chase. We tell ourselves that triumph will satisfy. That the moment of winning will stretch, timeless and full, wrapping around us like warmth on a cold day. And yet—how brief it is. The applause fades, the light moves on. The hunger stirs again.

Is it the stars that lead us here? The weight of fate, a hand unseen? Or is it our own longing, restless and relentless, pushing us forward?

Some say joy lives not in the trophy but in the climb, in the sweat of the effort, in the burn of pursuit. But even effort fades. Even the road, once walked, is left behind.

So, what remains? If victory is hollow, and the chase unending, where do we turn?

Perhaps, not to the stars, but to the earth beneath our feet. Perhaps, not to the finish line, but to those who run beside us. Perhaps the greatest triumph is not conquest, not accumulation, but presence. The moments where we breathe, where we hold, where we are held.

A win is just a win. But love—that is something else entirely.