There is an order to everything that’s happening in this world. If we observe deeply while we go with its flow, we see that it all makes sense.
Like words at the tip of a pen, we are being written. This flow is what I call poetry of life. It’s full of juxtapositions, synchronicities, and epiphanies.
We say that we can’t write poems but the irony is that we breathe, and our breath or life is poetry. We are poetry.
You’ve got this one life. You don’t know where you’ll go when it’s done. And when your voice is gone from this world, only silence will remain where you once stood. You can no longer hear what your heart wanted to say. Imagine you never heard your own voice. Imagine you never spoke up for yourself.
Isn’t it worth it to quiet all the other voices in your head so that you can hear your own? Isn’t it worth abandoning all your superficial goals to seek what your heart came to see?