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“Not all paths are chosen—some are remembered the moment we reach for what was never offered.” - Poet
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feet tracing ruts softened by the weight of others the path was worn polished not by insight but by generations unquestioning the same direction a weed split the sidewalk where my foot hesitated they handed us maps already marked, folded creased at the routes they wanted us to traverse walls hung with heirlooms no one claimed shadows longer than the rooms classrooms’ chalkboards of certainty offices pressed flat with protocol we learned the art of veiling the eye behind the eye we drank from vessels lips like waiting mouths etched with forgotten crests believing the shape of the cup taught us thirst air rehearsed its return like a tethered animal pacing the same invisible circle inscribed with grace shaped like a cage narrowing the limit of knowledge of wisdom altars made from repetition shaped our days to fit the mold filed down the splinters of doubt until only smooth compliance remained tell me— what is awakening if not the moment your hand reaches for a handle no one told you was there and the quiet moment after waking my heart uncertain unshod hesitates…
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