Two things in life are certain—
we all die,
and life can’t wait to get us there.
Some people die at 25.
We just bury them at 82.
Some people call family blood,
but all we do is bleed
our ancestors’ tempers.
Some people ask about love,
but we only teach them grief.
We only show them empty chairs,
the echoes of names nobody calls anymore.
Out of 8 billion,
only some people
walk like they know what this life means.
The rest of us?
We just awaken the possibility of being uncertain.
Some people think knowing is power.
But I know too much,
and it just makes my hands feel heavier.
Nobody protests wisdom.
Nobody fights the ones
who stare too long into the deep,
who drown in their own thoughts
before the sea ever touches their skin.
This is the weight of knowing.
Not of God,
not of heaven,
not of some great, glowing purpose—
I already know my purpose, I always have.
This is about the spaces in between.
The living. The surviving. The being.
The moments where you feel yourself slipping
between who you were
and who you have to be.