There are too many lives
inside this one.
One of me wants to build something
the world has never seen.
One wants to disappear
for a while,
somewhere nobody knows my name.
One stays awake
chasing an idea
that might not even work.
One writes poems
about feelings
he cannot explain in conversation.
One imagines standing on a stage
with everything finally accomplished.
And one, somewhere in the background,
just wants an ordinary evening
without having to become anything.
I move between them
like a stranger changing trains.
A little ambition here.
A little disappointment there.
A notebook full of beginnings.
A mind that refuses to close
even when the day is over.
People ask what I\'m working on.
I tell them about the projects,
the plans, the things I\'m building.
I rarely tell them
about the strange silence
that follows when I finish explaining.
Because how do you tell someone
that sometimes even your biggest dreams
feel like distant places
you might never reach?
How do you explain
that you can be proud of yourself
and still feel terribly behind?
That you can love the possibility
of your future
and be exhausted by the journey
towards it?
Sometimes I wish
I could meet myself
without the pressure of becoming.
No achievements to discuss.
No potential to fulfil.
No future to defend.
Just me.
The person underneath
all those plans.
I wonder what we would talk about.
Perhaps nothing extraordinary.
Perhaps we would sit somewhere,
watch the evening turn dark,
and for once,
neither of us would ask
what comes next.
Because I have spent so much time
trying to create a life
worth remembering
that I sometimes forget
to experience the one
I am already living.
And there is something
I haven\'t told anyone:
I\'m not afraid of having an ordinary life.
I\'m afraid of spending my entire life
trying to prove
that I deserved an extraordinary one.