Not loud—
but faithful.
A metronome beneath the ribs
since my mother’s breath went quiet
and mine learned its own uncertainty.
I used to move with ambition.
Now I move with purposeful haste—
not rushing past life,
but into it.
As if each moment
has a pulse I’m meant to catch
before it slips back into the unseen.
I am less interested in legacy
than in circulation—
being a conduit
for something that doesn’t belong to me
but insists on moving through me.
Grief opened the channel.
Mortality keeps it clear.
There is a duty now,
but not the heavy kind—
more like a current.
Go.
Say the thing.
Hold the hand.
Build what wants to be built.
Not later.
Holy urgency isn’t frantic.
It’s devoted.
It knows the hour is brief
and the light is passing
through.
-Chip