There is a quiet kind of rebellion in choosing breath over brilliance.
Each morning waking to the sound of my own pulse tapping against the windows of my ribs, Asking if I'm still here, if I can still name the sky after a night of forgetting.
I used to worship the ticking clock, bowing to its steady sermon of achievement.
Now time is a spilled jar of ink,
I'm too busy cleaning the stains to write down what I've learned
My mind has become of garden of waiting ambitions,
dreams that have due dates,
intentions overgrown by exhaustion.
The soil is rich with all I meant to do, but I've been busy.
Busy teaching my lungs how to stay open when the air is heavy.
Every night, I trade something unseen
A line of focus, a spark of drive, to keep the lantern inside of me from flickering out.
It's a delicate exchange, a kind of invisible math really.
How many pieces of Tomorrow need I spend to make it through the day?
I'm learning slowly that survival has its own syllabus.
it doesn't reward memorization or speed, it asks for softness, stillness,
for the ability to look at an unfinished task and say “I choose me instead”
Though the world keeps handing out certificates for endurance,
I'm building something quieter, a life that glows dimly but honestly,
where I am no longer the extra credit, no longer the sacrifice.
Because not every Victory wears a medal
some live in the shadows between breaths
in the pulse that refuses to quiet
In a world that feeds on ashes
That is the closest thing to grace.