As I age, the shape of meaning shifts  
no longer angles,  
no longer sharp.  
It flows now,  
like water escaping the hands  
that once tried to hold it  
too tightly.

I used to chase truth  
like a mathematician  
equations chalked across my chest,  
defenses drawn in logic lines,  
proofs stacked like walls  
between me and what I felt.

But life  
never stayed still long enough  
to be measured.

Fulfillment crept in  
through cracks I didn’t see
in the hush between thoughts,  
in the pull of a sunset  
that made no sense  
and needed none.

I searched for truth  
in clean absolutes,  
but found it instead  
in the soft murmur of uncertainty  
in the way my chest rises  
when something just feels right,  
even when I can’t explain why.

Still,  
the hardest part is knowing  
whether that voice I follow  
is really mine
or a whisper borrowed  
from someone I thought I had to be.  
Is it my soul speaking,  
or the echo of survival?  
Even feeling can wear a mask.

Yet I listen.  
More than I ever did.  
I sit with the sound,  
wait for it to settle,  
and trust that if it brings peace,  
it’s worth following.

Now I see  
truth isn’t a fixed star.  
It’s a flicker in each of us,  
a constellation drawn  
by different hands.  

I’ve stopped needing the answer  
to be universal.  
I’ve started letting the question  
be enough.

And in that surrender  
in that unspoken trust  
that meaning lives in the marrow,  
not the math  
I feel more alive  
than I ever did  
trying to be correct.