Sometimes, I feel a quiet urge to say something—
a flicker of thought, gone before I can hold it.

​

When I was younger, I loved to speak.
To question, to critique, to point at the world’s rough edges—
and some people even liked reading those words.

​

But time has its own rhythm.
I’ve come to feel that talking belongs to the young;
as we grow older, too many words begin to sound like complaints.

​

So I started to fall silent.
This stage of life asks for doing, not explaining.
When something feels wrong, I try to mend it.
When I see a gap, I fill it quietly.

​

Experience teaches that waiting for others rarely helps—
better to move gently, and begin.

​

Many of my friends do the same;
each in their own way, shaping something beautiful out of patience.

​

My strength is small.
And whenever I feel that I’ve done well,
I know it’s not really me—
it’s God moving through me.

​

Whatever remains, I leave in His hands.

​

My eyes have changed too.
I used to see what was missing;
now I see what is already whole.

​

There’s little left to complain about.
Life reveals itself simply—
when you look for beauty,
it becomes beauty.

10/20/2025​