Mental Health
The 25th Hour
Sometimes it takes the mpst strength to simply let go. For twenty years I've stubbornly clutched this habit. I let go for three years in my 20s, only to start right back. For the last fifteen years I've woke up And raced straight to it every single morningâ I couldn't "wake up" without it.
By Kelly Christian 5 months ago in Poets
The Iself Speaks
I cameâuninvited. Not as a guest, but as a presence that does not wait to be named.I sawâunconvinced. Not because nothing was real, but because everything insisted too loudly on being so.I dismantledâwithout mercy. Not out of cruelty, but because what stood before me was never meant to endure.I createdâwithout permission. Because permission is a language spoken only by those who fear their own becoming.I did not conquerâ I outlived the need for victory.There is no throne here. No summit. No final witness to declare that something has been won.Only this:A presence that remains when the hunger to rise above collapses into silence.Hand on my chest, I stoodânot above the world, but within it.Not as its ruler, nor as its subject, but as something that no longer requires a position to exist.God within the Iself, the Iself within Godânot a union, but a dissolution of the question itself.You search for alignment. I dissolved the axis.You seek the One as though it were distantâbut distance is the last illusion you have not buried.In you, it fractures.Not because it is broken, but because you insist on being many.You divide yourself to survive your own weight, then call the fragments âidentity.âYou give them names, histories, desiresâand then you kneel before them as if they were sovereign.The skeptic turned inward and found no throneâonly motion.No centerâ only convergence mistaken for unity.And still, you ask:Where am I?You are where the question dissolves.Not answeredâ dissolved.Before I was named, a whisper found me:Exist.Not as commandâ but as recognition.And soâ I did.Not once. Not continuously. But beyond the measure that time could impose.Fracture the clock.Let time disperse.What endures does not pass.You count your life in momentsâI lost count when I ceased needing them.In my forestâ long before your structures of meaningâwe were three.Not separate, but distinct enough to be seen.Sons of the same source.One held strength. One held mind.I was neither.I was.And that was enough to become bothâ and beyond them.Do not mistake this for hierarchy.There is no âaboveâ here.Only depth.And you have not yet fallen far enough.You pursue love as if it were a reward.You chase it through bodies, through promises, through illusions of permanenceâand call the moment it fades a tragedy.You confuse intensity with truth.You confuse attachment with recognition.Cupidâs arrow does not woundâit distracts.The one who reaches the end does not fall in loveâhe dissolves into it.And what remains cannot be lost.The devil did not break you.He offered you something sweeter than truth.And you accepted.Not because you were weakâ but because you preferred a beautiful lie over a silent reality.Your ego drank it like a starving man given poison in a golden cup.And now you tremble when silence approaches.You call it emptiness.You call it void.You call it fear.But it is none of these.It is the absence of everything you used to avoid yourself.Sit with it.Not as an exercise. Not as a practice.But as an inevitability.Within you, an âIâ waits.Not the one that speaksâ but the one that watches.Sit long enoughâand it will not answer.It will remain.And in that remaining, you will begin to understand why answers were never the point.How many times was I broken?Many.How many times did I stand?Once.And it was enough.Because I did not stand as someone rebuiltâI stood as something that no longer required form to hold itself together.Against me, bring no weapons.There is nothing here that can be wounded.The only thing that falls in my presence is the self you insist on protecting.And when it breaksâ do not call it loss.Call it accuracy.I leave a markânot for many, but for the one who returns.Not to meâ but to what in him recognizes me.When you find yourselfâ trulyâyou will not celebrate.You will remember.The first light. The first rupture. The first moment you saw without needing to interpret.Rien au-delĂ â seul le reste demeure.Beyond all that you add, only what remains has ever been real.Carry one anchor.Not belief. Not identity.But awarenessâunclothed by conclusion.Carry it to its end.Beyond the infiniteâ you are given only once.This lifeânot as a possession, but as an opening.You treat it as something to manage.I saw it as something that cannot be held.And soâ I stopped trying.I hold no kingdom.Yet nothing escapes me.I rule nothing.Yet nothing stands outside my reach.Not because I expandâ but because I no longer divide.You and Iâproof that life endures even when identity does not.So tell meâwhen you read me, what breaks?Is it your certainty?Your structure?Or the quiet lie you built to remain untouched?The answerâ always the same:The forgotten self shatters.Rest in peaceâevery throne built on illusion.Let them fall.Let them dissolve.Let them return to what never needed them.Do not cry over what collapses.Cry for what remains hidden beneath it.In death, you glimpse life.In life, you notice death.But beyond bothâ there is something that does not alternate.That does not arrive. That does not leave.That simplyâ is.Poisoned?Drink my ink.Not to be healedâ but to see what in you rejects the cure.At the coreâa fool on the shore, waiting to cross a door that was never closed.You ask:Was it a structure?Was it a world without foundation, without pillars, without roof?Yes.And you lived in it as though it required repair.I told him:Praise the One who holds youâand do not forget to hold yourself without needing to be held.I cameâyou heard thunder.Not as soundâ but as interruption.First, I struck. Second, you witnessed. Thirdâyou understood that nothing had attacked you.Only revealed.What the devil broke in youâ was never yours.What I restoredâ was never lost.You will miss this.Not because it leavesâ but because you return to forgetting.Until the storm finds you again.And when it doesâdo not run.Stand.Not as resistanceâ but as recognition.Break the silence.Not by speakingâ but by ceasing to escape it.Manifest the innerânot as expression, but as exposure.Within yourselfâ you did not find me.You found what remains when âmeâ is no longer needed.A shining soulânot as it was, but as it never stopped being.And the tear that falls while you read thisâis not sadness.It is memory escaping form.I did not come to be understood.I cameâto see what remains of you after this is over.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH5 months ago in Poets
