i watch myself on the grainy reel
the boy already drowning in the first act
his fists raw against the wall of some impossible climb
every cut of the film a scar that never closed
yet i know the ending already
the champion survives
because i am here watching
i see the paths i never could explain to him
the false light leading into enemy hands
the friends who fall in slow motion
their mouths opening but never finishing the sentence
i want to shout into the screen
there is another way turn here do not trust them
but the projector runs on and my voice is swallowed
i took the harder road because it looked like fire
because pride is a cruel director
and i thought rebellion was the only language i spoke
and so the story kept breaking me into shape
until i stood at the summit with everything
and still felt the black hole circling
still felt that gravity of not enough
i wish i could reach back and stitch his wounds shut
wipe the sweat before it blinds him
but the truth is i would only ever be reaching for myself
the boy and the man and the ghost the same
all of us turning in the same orbit
and i know now
i was sculpting this image with my own hands
chiseling toward my own ruin or redemption
alone in the light of my own making
Wisdom gained through suffering is not inherently superior to wisdom offered freely by others... both arrive at the same truths.
And yet, when I was younger, I couldn't hear it. Pride, rebellion, that need to carve my own path... those things deafened me to the warnings and guidance I was given.
I chose the gauntlet. I let myself be broken into shape. I know it wasn't the only way. The only real enemy has always been me. Every scar and every loss could have been avoided if only the younger self had listened.