Maturity Speaks

I am a shadow of who I used to be.

And I don't say that with grief.

Just truth.

The things that once pulled at me

no longer reach my hands.

Trends pass me by.

New sounds don't move my bones.

Shiny things ask for my attention.

And I refuse them gently.

Still, I am afraid.

Because when the noise fades,

there is no script left.

No mirror telling me

who I should be becoming.

I ask myself quietly:

Who am I now?

What do I stand on

when the ground keeps shifting?

And if I don't know,

who could possibly know for me?

So I sit in silence.

Not because I am empty,

but because I am listening.

It is awkward—

This pause,

this unpolished presence,

this body refusing small talk

and borrowed opinions.

Silence is heavy.

It drains the performance from you.

It leaves only what is real

and unfinished.

Until clarity returns,

until intention names itself,

this is where I stay:

Unmoving,

unexplained,

unbothered by the world's urgency.

This is not loss.

This is discernment.

Maturity doesn't shout.

It doesn't chase relevance.

It waits,

rooted, watching,

becoming.

And when it speaks,

it does not ask permission