Troubled Ramblings

Thursday, January 29, 2026

The Beauty of Death

In our present state of bodily affairs

grappling with the slow betrayals of aging

we learn that time is no gentle companion

Time presses, erodes, and demands its toll

Yet I do not greet death as a friend

I do not open the door before it knocks

Life is still mine to carry

I will not lay it down early

Perpetuity may be impossible

but endurance is not

I will wrestle for every hour

that still holds meaning

The gateway of transcendence is death—

but only after the body has given its last

only when breath itself decides to loosen

Death is the softest door

we will ever be asked to walk through

The beauty of death

is not in longing for it

but in knowing

it waits without hurry —

and in choosing every day

before it comes

to keep contending

with both hands

clenched around life

Immeasurable

It’s hard to fathom anything

as immeasurable

It is part of our humanity

to quantify everything

We measure the distances

From here to there

From there to here

adding the necessary variables

So we know when to leave

And when we will arrive

We measure temperatures

We determine how to dress

“If it’s over 30°, it’s a T-shirt day ”

We check the forecast religiously

Lest we are caught unaware

And not properly attired

We measure hours in a day (work)

We measure days in the week

When we are young

we possess an invincible immortality

The invincibility leaves first

Immortality follows

We count our steps and our miles

We monitor heart rate and blood pressure

We reduce ourselves to numbers

and call it awareness

All of this exists in relation to time

viewed through its narrowing filter

We count birthdays

We count anniversaries

In this way

we measure time

But tomorrow

That

is immeasurable

So today bears the weight of it

Today is where we linger longer

speak softer

or choose our silence

carefully

Today is where we forgive sooner

hold tighter

or finally let go

Tomorrow cannot be measured

So today must be lived

Without rehearsal

January 29, 2026

The Grinding Wheel

At a time we should be approaching utopia,

We find ourselves sliding into dystopia.

We should be at the pinnacle of society,

Yet, an elite group—not even a majority—

is pulling us down into the mire

where human life is merely a commodity.

The luxury of the top tier

tramples the rights of the masses.

We exist under the jackboots

of their thug army, the enforcement arm

of ignorance crowned as leadership.

Falling in line,

or falling under the wheels of the machine,

raising a generation

with no taste of freedom in their memories.

The children learn the rhythm of the gears,

mistaking the humming for a lullaby.

The machine demands silence,

total and absolute—

purchased by the blood

of those resisting.

They never learn the taste of salt,

of tears born of rebellion,

or how quickly favor turns.

But iron grows brittle

under the cold of its own soul.

When the gears finally seize,

the only thing left

will be the weight

of the ghosts

we were told to forget.

Worth the Wait

Why did I never realize

this kind of love existed?

To know it and not have it

would be a loss so deep

the heart could not bear it.

Even now, having it—

this power,

this knowledge,

this love—

it overwhelms me.

It floods me,

sweeping me away

to some distant shore

where I arrive safely,

dripping with emotion.

The waves spill out of me,

poured into those around me—

until again,

I am carried away.

How does one ignore that pull?

How can one not feel that hunger?

Can complacency

become the placebo

that keeps us grounded

when we were made to soar?

And still the pull remains—

Unanswered

Unignored

Waiting

After all

Isn’t love

worth the wait?