Years alone can be a loud number and still an empty proof, when the only evidence of living is the candle count on a cake,
Years alone make me pause at how easily we grow older without growing inward, storing years the way we store proof we never read,
And years alone make me ask whether I’d have a truthful answer if questioned about my time, or only an awkward smile in its place,
But years alone tells me, I can stop treating years as an automatic meaning and start making meaning on purpose…
Hours lived stack up invisibly, day after day, like a silent mountain of time I rarely bother to count until something shakes me awake,
Hours lived multiply in the background—days into years, years into decades—while I’m distracted by errands, by noise, and the false urgency of these little things,
And hours lived ask me, if I counted them—those years, times days, times hours—would I even feel proud of how I spent them, or would I feel the sting of waste,
But hours lived tell me, I can honor my days by allocating my hours with purpose, not impulse…
Time slips into neglect the moment I treat it like an endless supply, repeating “tomorrow” as though it’s guaranteed,
Time slips into neglect looks like scrolling, arguing, procrastinating, numbing, postponing, and calling it “rest” when it’s really avoidance in disguise.
And time slips into neglect asking me, how many hours have I traded for nothing that truly fed my spirit, nothing that made me kinder or braver,
But when time slips into neglect, it tells me I can take it back gently, through small actions begun in this right moment…
Familiar comforts fill the days easily, work that drains me, those shows that blur together, and impulsive purchases that excite me for one hour then leave me empty again,
Familiar comforts can make a whole life feel like a waiting room, where I keep myself entertained enough not to notice that I’m only wasting my only chance,
And familiar comforts ask me, if these are the things I spend my hours on, will I be satisfied when the hours start running out,
But familiar comforts tell me, I can enjoy simple pleasures without letting them become the main story of my life…
Watchwords:
• Years do not equal depth
• Hours deserve respect
• Tomorrow is not guaranteed
• Comfort can become numbness
• I can choose intention now
Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..
As and will always be reminding you to dream:
