There are things
that make your heart race
for no logical reason.
A sound,
a story,
a brushstroke,
a sky full of stars.
And when you speak of it,
your voice lifts,
your eyes light
like morning windows.

That’s passion.

And not everyone gets it.
They might laugh,
or tilt their head,
not seeing the way it blooms in you  
the way it feels like
home and thunder
all at once.

But that’s okay.
It’s not theirs to hold.
It’s yours.

Because passion doesn’t ask permission.
It burns in you quietly
or wildly.
but always,
it’s honest.

It’s the thing that keeps you alive
when the world goes dim.
The thing that pulls you back to yourself
when you start to drift.
The thing you’d do
even if no one clapped.
Even if no one looked.

So let yourself burn
for what you love.
There’s nothing wrong
with the fire.
only with a world
that fears the heat.

There are billions of faces
in this spinning world,
but not one
is yours.

Not one laughs like you,
thinks like you,
dreams in your exact colors.
Your voice is a note
never sung before.
not quite like this,
not quite by anyone.

You are a fingerprint
pressed gently into time.
Unrepeatable.
Unrehearsed.
The only version of your soul
this world will ever meet.

It’s wild.

To be made of stars
and blood
and memory.
but arranged in a way
that has never existed before
and never will again.

You are a once in forever echo.
And while you walk among millions,
no one can carry your story
the way you do.

And never forget:

You are not just “another.”

You are the only.

It’s not sadness,
not really.
It’s the space after the storm,
where nothing grows,
and nothing dies.

It’s not the tears,
it’s the absence of them.
Eyes dry,
but not clear.
Just blank.

You remember when you used to feel things.
Songs would split you open,
sunsets made you cry,
a laugh could save you.
Now you just nod
and pretend.

They ask,
“Are you okay?”
And you say,
“Yeah.”
Because you don’t know what else to say
when nothing’s really wrong
and everything is.

It’s like watching your life
through a fogged up window.
you’re there,
but not really.

Not sad,
not happy,
just
here.

Breathing,
but not alive.
Moving,
but not living.

And the scariest part is,
you start to get used to it.
Like numbness is safer
than pain.

Like feeling nothing
is easier
than risking
everything.

You miss
missing things.
You miss
feeling full,
or even broken.
You’d take pain
if it meant
you could still feel alive.

But for now you hope that
just maybe
something warm
will reach you
before you forget
what warmth even means.