Measured Distance / In Motion

At nineteen, I thought I was the man in motion.

I had a schedule,

a moral compass not yet stress-tested,

and an intoxicating arrogance that mistook optimism for wisdom.

At twenty-nine, I know better.

Certainty is fragile.

Plans dissolve.

People move on.

Some questions stay unanswered.

I’m not lost.

I just stopped pretending there’s a map.

I’m standing in front of the life box I rode in on; 

assembly required with no blueprint,

'Handle with Care' written on the side in twisted irony.

Some days feel meaningful.

Some feel like background noise.

Still, I keep moving.

Not because I’m convinced of some higher purpose,

but because even in the quiet,

even in the loneliness,

there is a part of me that remembers...

I remember nineteen:

How bright it felt to believe.

How easy it felt to trust.

How blissful it felt to be naïve.

How genuine it felt to hope.

I don’t need to go back.

But some days,

I wonder if that old light is still somewhere inside me,

waiting to be noticed again.