Back to Me

Memory is a strange thing. It holds the smell of an old iron and a song my mother sang at the stove, then suddenly erases faces as if they never existed. And it seems like you're living by the rules, working, closing the gate - but inside, you're no longer the reckless person who once twisted life like a cowboy's lasso. Everything has become slower, softer, more cautious.

But there is something familiar in this fatigue - like a warm hand that holds your fingers tightly, preventing you from completely falling apart into ‘yesterday’ and ‘tomorrow.’ And perhaps it is in moments like these that you realise: true strength is not in the circle you have run, but in the fact that you have not forgotten why you ran in the first place.