We chase dreams like they owe us something... running breathless through corridors we built ourselves, toward doors and relationships we forgot we left unlocked and open ended. We lease our joy to circumstances, pay monthly installments of hope, and quietly ache wondering why we always feel behind. The landlord is time, the currency is years. And with trembling hands... we still sign the papers of the next chase, with a promise to buy our life back.
There is something heartbreakingly tender about buying back what was always yours: your peace, your stillness, your unhurried mornings that nobody took but you simply left them behind. We trade our breath for ambition, then spend the ambition trying to feel whole air again. Perhaps the pursuit was never strange at all. Perhaps it is simply the long, aching, beautiful way we find our way back... only to discover the thing we were so desperately chasing, and had never once stopped waiting.
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