We wait, losing the constants of our lives—those fleeting moments that slip through our fingers like fine sand, as we gaze at the horizon searching for something more, something that may never come. We long for stories, the kind that make us feel alive, that let us escape monotony and immerse ourselves in worlds where anything is possible. We yearn to transcend, to leave an indelible mark, yet we often drown in routine, in the fear of failure, in the doubt that whispers in our ear that we are not enough.
We suffer absences that have not yet left us, because we anticipate loss before it happens, because we cling to the ghosts of what could have been and never was. We cry out for truths, yet sometimes we bury them beneath layers of white lies, afraid to hurt or be hurt. We lose smiles along the way—the ones that fade unnoticed, the ones that once lit up our faces and are now just blurred memories.
For every anguish we carry, we overlook the opportunities life offers us—those glimmers of light in the darkness, those doors that open when we believe everything is closed. We stand frozen at the edge of the abyss, too afraid to take the leap, failing to realize that sometimes it is in the fall where we find our wings.
And so, between waiting and nostalgia, between silence and stifled cries, we keep walking. We search for answers in poorly phrased questions, love in the wrong places, comfort in arms that do not know how to hold. Yet despite it all, we carry on, because deep down, we know that even in loss there is a lesson, even in absence there lingers an echo of what was once ours. And perhaps—just perhaps—that will be enough to keep moving forward.