The World Keeps Spinning
The world is a strange machine.
It asks children
what they want to become
before they've learned
who they are.
It teaches us to count the years
while quietly stealing them,
turning birthdays into reminders
that time has never waited for permission.
People fall in love with strangers,
then wake up one day
beside someone they no longer recognize.
Others spend a lifetime searching
for a place that feels like home,
only to realize
it was never a destination—
only a moment.
Cities breathe louder than forests.
Stars disappear beneath streetlights.
We build clocks to measure time,
then complain
there is never enough of it.
Some dreams survive impossible odds.
Others die
because we were simply too afraid
to begin.
The strongest people
are often the ones
who have spent years pretending
they are not breaking.
The happiest laughter
sometimes comes from mouths
that have memorized grief.
And somehow,
the sun still rises.
Coffee still grows cold.
Rain still falls on people
who prayed for clear skies
and people who begged for storms.
Life has no obligation
to make sense.
It is a masterpiece
painted with trembling hands—
beautiful because of the mistakes,
terrifying because of the unknown,
and impossible to recreate.
Maybe that is the point.
Not to solve the chaos,
but to stand in the middle of it,
laughing when you can,
crying when you must,
loving without guarantees,
and looking up every now and then,
amazed
that this wildly impossible existence
happened to us at all.