Plenty of people will hate you in this lifetime—let them. It’s fewer names to remember, fewer voices echoing in the hollow halls of your mind. To be hated means you’ve disturbed the dreamers. You’ve become a light too bright for those content in the dark. Hatred, after all, is just a sign that you’ve stepped off their assembly line.
There are souls built for the hum of repetition. Sleepwalkers. Cogs in a machine that feeds on conformity. They live by script and instruction, believing motion means progress. Be. Do. Act. As they say you should. They burn to keep the machine warm, unaware of who’s really sitting at the controls.
But those who play with power they don’t understand—eventually dine on the ashes of their own creation. Every act of greed builds its own feast of consequence. So don’t wait for an invitation to their table. Go your own way. Walk the path cut by your own hands, where the air smells like truth and not exhaust.
Let the sleepwalkers dance in circles, pointing fingers at each other for the fires they started themselves. Every word they speak becomes another brick in their own wall. You, meanwhile, sit above it all—like a bird on a branch—watching them scramble in their endless blame games.
They call it purpose. You call it noise.
So you take the winding trail. The one that hums beneath your feet, leading you deeper into your own becoming. You breathe. You see. You remember. For a moment, everything feels still—too still. Contentment wraps around you like a blanket, warm but heavy. It whispers that you’ve made it. That you can rest.
But rest too long, and you’ll rust.
Contentment is the slowest kind of death. The silent decay of the soul that once ran wild. So you rise again, dust on your hands, breath in your lungs, fire in your eyes. The locomotive of your becoming roars to life. You are not heading to the back nine to rest in peace. You are heading forward—to burn, to learn, to live in motion.
Because the world doesn’t need another sleeper.
It needs someone awake.
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