There are no more nights for wishes.
No more upturned faces whispering to falling stars.
The heavens don’t trade in longing anymore—
they only echo what already is.
We walk the trembling line
between here and there,
between the heartbeat of matter
and the breath that keeps pretending it’s alive.
The walls hum in color now,
breathing, shifting,
wearing masks of meaning
for those who still dream with closed eyes.
The chair isn’t a chair.
It’s a resting spell,
a soft illusion that lets my bones forget gravity
for a little while.
Everything hums at the speed
of what I’m willing to understand.
Energy doesn’t know good or evil—
it only knows motion.
It listens to command,
to thought,
to the pulse beneath the word.
Speak, and it bends.
Whisper, and it builds.
The gospel, the ungospel—
they are the same sermon
in two dialects of fear.
One needs to be right.
The other trembles at the thought of being wrong.
Both crave the same absolution
from the mirror.
Love speaks in languages
we keep forgetting how to translate.
We reach outside, endlessly,
trying to find something that explains
why it hurts to be inside.
Visitors in our own skin,
foreigners in our own pulse,
we wait for gods, stars,
something—anything—
to give what only the self can give.
Some beg for shortcuts,
detours around the fire,
not realizing the long road
is where the gold is made.
There are no fallbacks here.
Only the work,
and what that work says about you
when no one’s looking.
When you’ve met your demons eye to eye
and they finally bow,
you feel it—
that strange hollow fullness in the gut.
Victory tastes like silence.
The world shrinks.
The noise quiets.
And for a flicker of time
you understand why you came.
But not everyone makes it out whole.
Some return—
recycled fragments,
half-shell echoes of who they were.
The name is called again.
Eyes open.
New vessel.
Old soul.
Learning, again,
the art of remembering.
Somewhere ahead of you
is the version of yourself
who already knows.
Catch up.
Find them in the place
where thought and being
finally share a rhythm.
Slip through the wormhole,
ride the frequency of your own becoming,
and see yourself—
a ray of light
flickering in the northern sky,
unfolding,
unchained,
remembered.
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