At this stage—late twenty-five, nearing twenty-six, time once gentle now cuts like a blade. Tick-tock, tick-tock. It carries away a youth overgrown with weeds, disperses the mist, and leaves me aboard a ship on a silent, vast sea. But am I sailing, or merely drifting? Am I building my own saga, or lost in a beautiful dream woven by others?
I ponder the difference, and why it matters. This isn’t about work. It’s about looking back at my past and setting aside the meaning I’ve clung to but never truly owned. I must recognize it as Bad Faith, the elephant in the room. Simply put, I have not been true to myself, especially in my decisions and intentions. People may never notice, but I’ve built walls in my mind, and my behavior echoes in an endless cycle. I accomplish many things outwardly, yet in my own life, I procrastinate. I deceive myself.
Life is like a strand of spring wind. In the blink of an eye, decades have shaped a person with a full history of mind and body. It feels like a long prologue, scripted with deep secrets and innocent silence. I want to be true. I don’t want to waste or delay any longer. This urge erupts like a volcanom, sky collapsing, earth splitting open—my heart burns like a ruby. All the silent sufferings of late nights rush to my head, make me leap from bed, stand with hands behind my head, breathless.
I am desperate to be true to myself. To finish what was left undone. To heal scars that have lingered for decades. I’ll tell no one, my pride and fragile self-esteem echo too loudly. I will take it slow and silent, gradual, step by step, like fitting together pieces of a puzzle. I know it isn’t impossibly difficult. It just takes courage.
Life is so short. In this vast world, many never have the chance to live to my age.
Oh, be true, my dear only self.
Be silent. This is a redemption no one will witness.
Don’t cry, just exhale the stale air that has lingered too long in your chest.