How many selves have we archived
in the name of reason?
How many lives have we postponed
for the comfort of certainty?
Sometimes the soul refuses postponement.
Sometimes it trembles us awake.
Sometimes life happens to you—
not with drums,
not with declarations,
but in the hush between two ordinary breaths.
It waits
at the bend of an unnoticed street,
in the pale afternoon of a forgotten day,
in the fragile second
when your guard slips.
Around corners you have passed a hundred times,
beyond cliffs you never meant to climb,
it pulses—
a rhythm too tender for reason,
too luminous for logic—
and suddenly the ground forgets
how to hold your feet.
What the world dismisses
as your scattered murmurs,
your chaotic wanderings,
is only the heart
knocking from within—
insistent,
alive.
Those are not ramblings.
They are the tremors of a soul
long archived
in the dust-heavy vaults
of a carefully managed life.
How many lives lie dormant in you—
curled like unopened letters
in the quiet labyrinth
of rustic chores
and dutiful routines?
You choose the life
that fits neatly into daylight,
the one least likely to disturb the furniture.
And you tenderly neglect
the others—
those vibrant, unruly selves
fluttering in your chest
like birds that remember the sky.
Then one day,
unguarded,
you walk without armour
through a familiar path.
A breeze finds you.
Not violent—
not grand—
just certain.
It lifts the dust from your fading colours,
coaxes forgotten music from your bones,
brightens the blurred edges of your name.
It does not ask permission.
It does not argue with fear.
It simply holds you—
gently,
as if you were always meant
for this trembling.
And in that trembling
you recognise it:
the life
you had secretly rehearsed in dreams,
the one you feared
because it was vivid,
because it was true.
Life does not always knock loudly.
Sometimes it leans close—
and whispers you awake.
Comments
Post a Comment