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Every day the world reminds us to pretend.

You rise. You dress. You check the time.

The calendar tells you where to be.

The headlines tell you what to fear.

The mirror tells you who you are.

And mostly, we believe them.

But then it happens—

a crack in the choreography,

a slip in the script.

The runner who trained for years

finishes second by a breath

and for a split instant

doesn’t know if they’re proud or ruined.

They smile, sort of.

Their eyes blur.

A traveler steps off the wrong train.

The signs are in a language they don’t read.

No signal. No map.

Just the scent of diesel and sea salt

and the sudden, sacred fact

that they are small. And here.

A parent, in aisle seven,

with a toddler mid-meltdown.

All eyes on them.

The apples spill.

Their voice falters.

They forget what they came for.

These are the holy tremors.

The cracks where the light gets in,

or maybe where the lie leaks out.

Because the truth is—

we don’t know.

Not really.

We are not our schedules.

Not our bank accounts.

Not our passports, nor plans.

We are space apes with soft hearts

and fragile bones,

sailing a molten rock through black silence,

making up stories to feel safe.

And yet—

In those moments

when the knowing drops away—

when you are humbled,

awkward,

lost—

there is something unbearable and brilliant.

Like staring into God’s mouth.

It is not certainty that saves us.

It is the mystery that binds us.

So pause.

Let yourself forget what comes next.

Let your knees buckle beneath the stars.

Let your breath hitch at the baby’s cry,

the wrong turn,

the silver medal.

This is not failure.

This is being.

This is the edge of the veil.

And maybe—

this is where the real story begins.

~