How swiftly I grew...only now do I see it! And my life unfolded like a film. How long I have walked toward my happiness... I seem to have crossed seven continents already! How many people have come into my life, O God... And departed, each taking a piece of me. How many times have I stumbled into impossible love, love I gave to others that was never returned. How many thorns have lodged in this heart... He did not suffer them, could not fathom why, how after all this time they still ache equally... Only the tears have grown with the years. And he, my path, already seems to weary... With each step I die a little more. "Rest!"—you might say, you people. But somehow I cannot, will not stop! And if I go on, I will go on...Perhaps you'll meet me. I will not be the girl with a child's face, but I will smile at you, still luminous... The pain lies hidden beneath the smile. Do not be startled if you see my hair turned white. Perhaps I'll be a little older, still...just smile with sincerity... so I might know my walking was not in vain.
# Not In Vain <p>The night descends, heavy with stars, and I stand at the window counting them— each one a prayer someone whispered into the dark, thinking no one listened. But I listened. I always listen. The world breaks itself against reason, against the small mathematics of hope. We gather the pieces anyway, cupping them like water that refuses to hold. Nothing is wasted, they say. Not the word spoken to a wall. Not the letter burned before sending. Not the dream that scattered at dawn like birds fleeing a stone. I have kept them all— the failures, the silences, the almost-loves. I have pressed them between the pages of this ordinary life like flowers that no one will ever see. And if no one sees them, does it matter? Does it diminish the color they held once, briefly, in the palm of someone's trembling hand? The night asks nothing of us but witness. And I have witnessed. I have seen the small resurrections— how we rise again from our own ash, how we learn to laugh at wounds, how we love despite everything. So no. Nothing in vain. Not even this— the quiet act of turning toward the light, knowing it may never turn toward us, and choosing, still, to see.</p>
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