Write like there is no tomorrow.
Let the ink spill faster than your regrets,
faster than the tide that swallows names from stone.
Let the page burn with your blood
before your mouth remembers silence.

No man controls time.
Not the priest, the poet, the king,
not the one who waits,
not the one who runs.

Life is not given.
It is borrowed breath,
a fragile flicker
on a clock that ticks whether you move or rot.
The hours do not wait.
They do not care.
They do not remember you.

Write because tomorrow may not come.
And if it does,
it may not arrive as you hoped,
or with your name still in your throat.
We are not in control.
We never were.

Moments are sand –
they vanish even as we hold them.
Memories bend and blur,
warped by sorrow, softened by longing.
Tombstones do not speak;
they only mark the aching fact:
we were here.

Pictures fade.
And if no one looks,
the light inside them dies.
Words on a wall mean nothing
if no one knows the tongue.

But thought,
written in ink,
can outlive even the silence –
if it’s read,
if it’s felt,
if it strikes the living like thunder behind the ribs.

Hills rise and crumble.
Trees reach and fall.
All things shift.
All things pass.

So write like there is no tomorrow.
Because sometimes it does not come.
And when it does,
we may already be dust –
scattered down some cobbled road,
whispering stories
only the wind still remembers.

And in the end,
when the ink is dry,
the voices quiet,
and the page begins to yellow –
ask yourself,
would it all matter?
And know the answer lies
in whether you dared to write
at all.