26/01/2026
The Quiet Weight of Knowing
I once ran after shining answers,
like a child chasing mirrors of light,
thinking truth lived in loud victories,
in hands full of borrowed pride.
I thought wisdom was a crown,
placed on heads that never bent,
but life taught me softly, slowly
it lives in knees that have learnt to repent.
I walked through storms of wanting more,
through deserts of endless “why,”
every wound became a language
that taught my soul how to sigh.
The wheel kept turning
karma’s breath,
round and round my fragile name,
sometimes lifting me toward hope,
sometimes burning me in flame.
I asked the world for shortcuts,
for maps to reach “enough,”
but wisdom smiled in silence and said,
“Child, the path is made of rough.”
It grows in unanswered prayers,
in nights where courage feels small,
in choosing peace over proving
when your heart wants to shout and fall.
I learnt that knowing is not power,
nor words dressed clever and bright
it is sitting with your shadows
and still choosing light.
Now I walk slower than before,
not because I fear the race,
but because I’ve seen eternity
hide inside a patient pace.
Wisdom is not a destination,
not a throne, not a crown
it is learning how to rise quietly
after every fall down.
And if tomorrow I forget again,
if illusion pulls me fast,
may this knowing whisper gently:
“All that matters will last.”
