Still Running With Barefoot Dreams

 

 

There comes a moment—not loud, not lit by fireworks—
when a man stares into the mirror,
and it no longer reflects just a face,
but a question:

 

 

 

"Who echoes in me now, and who dreams in the stillness of yet to be?"

It is not age that marks the shift.
It is ache.
The soft ache of dreams that changed shape.
Of innocence packed away in silence.
Of joy traded for duty—
not because we wanted to,
but because life whispered, “Now, it’s your turn to carry.”

The boy we once were still lives somewhere beneath the skin—
barefoot on summer roads,
laughter loud, heart light,
loving without logic,
hoping without fear.

But the world asked for something else.
For stillness when we wanted to scream,
for strength when we were shattering inside.
And so, we learned to clench.
To endure.
To speak less.
To become “the man.”

Yet the boy didn’t die.
He waits.
He whispers.
He reminds us of mornings without weight
and nights when the stars spoke only of wonder.

To become a man…
is not to bury the boy,
but to build around him a soul that knows both fire and softness.

A man doesn’t have to be all iron.
He can be sky, too—
limitless in thought, soft in spirit, wild in wonder.

Freedom isn’t lost in becoming a man.
It’s reborn in the knowing:
That we can walk through fire
and still remember how it felt to dance in the rain.

That we can lead
but still long to be held.
That we can fight 

But still mourn in silence.
That we can be grounded—
without losing the wings we once drew in the sand.

You don’t owe the world the man it expects.
You owe your soul the man it feels.

So become—slowly, wildly, bravely.
Let the boy live in your laughter,
and let the man rise in your back.

Because the journey is not a straight line.
It’s a circle,
a spiral,
a flame that dims and burns again.

And you—
you are becoming.
Not perfect. Not finished.
But beautifully whole. 

 

 

 

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Written on   June 17, 024