The clock’s relentless tick of doing
has worn my delicate edges smooth,
and each deadline carves grooves into my face.

But listen: there is a stir beneath the routine,
a pulse that beats against the rigid working walls.

These fluorescent years have taught me
isolation’s dawning truth:
the lost opportunities to connect, the weekend work,
the head caught in a screen, always something more,
endless feeding.

Yet now I hear a different music rising:
the song of hands that heal instead of
hustle to achieve,
of conversations that circle back to souls,
and not about a system hungry for results.

Time grows precious when you count it,
not in numbers but in heartbeats, and I find
my compass turning toward humanity,
toward giving and not being taken,
toward this true north that
I have always sought.

 

10/8/2025