Wasting the Miracle
It begins with a quiet revelation:
The path of real self-improvement—the kind that chisels you from the inside out—does not lead to applause.
It leads to a narrower gate.
As you grow—clearer, leaner, more awake—you find you can still talk to anyone,
but connect to almost no one.
Not out of pride. Not out of disdain.
But because you feel it the moment the crowd forms:
Each person alone might carry a spark.
Together, they become fog.
So you smile. You nod. You keep walking.
But deep down, something in you whispers:
This isn’t where I can breathe.
And in that silence, a deeper question arises:
How do people waste it so casually?
This body, this mind, this brief and blinding chance at existence
squandered on gossip, scrolling, recycled outrage.
Not from malice.
But from fear.
From learned helplessness.
From a life trained to believe that thinking for yourself is a risk.
They were born with a cathedral inside their skulls.
And they turned it into a shopping mall.
You don’t hate them.
You grieve them.
Because the human brain—
the most miraculous structure we know—
was not meant for passive consumption and performative fury.
It was meant for wonder. For courage. For attention. For discovery.
Those who choose otherwise aren’t wicked.
They’re just asleep behind the wheel of a miracle they never learned to drive.
The narrow path is lonely.
It costs belonging.
It costs comfort.
It costs ease.
But what it returns is beyond what the crowd can comprehend:
The strength to inhabit your own skin without shame.
The stillness to watch a sunset and be wholly there.
The freedom to speak without performing.
And the quiet certainty, one day,
that you did not waste the gift of life.