One must wake up.
Recover.
Come alive.
It sounds simple.
But the difficulty is that one has to wake up from what one long considered wakefulness.
From one’s own bustle.
From constant busyness.
From endless movement that only looks like life.
One has to recover from what one mistook for health.
From habitual reactions.
From convenient deafness.
From the ability to endure what has long been breaking a person from within.
And one has to come alive from what seemed like a full life.
From the schedule.
From goals that no longer give warmth.
From roles a person learned so well that one day he confused them with himself.
That is why real awakening is rarely pleasant.
It does not always arrive as bright music and a gentle morning.
Sometimes it arrives as honest understanding:
you were asleep precisely where you thought yourself awake.
you were ill precisely with what you called health.
and you were surviving precisely where you thought you were living.
To wake up does not mean to become someone else.
Sometimes it means seeing for the first time
where you stopped being alive...
