I have been called impatient,
always reaching, always moving
a restless pulse against the silence,
always reaching for more.
But what for?
I’ve let joy sit on the shelf,
saving it for later,
as if it were a fine wine
needing time to be worthy.
I have mistaken desire for indulgence,
seen longing as something to be tamed,
told myself the struggle was noble,
that ease was something I had to earn.
But joy is not a prize at the end of effort,
It’s not a luxury for another season.
It is here, in the quiet moment,
in the breath I take before the next step.
No more postponing, no more waiting.
I will sip from the cup of now,
unafraid to taste its sweetness.
If this sparked something for you, a new question, a new perspective, or a quiet knowing, you don’t have to explore it alone.
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