Realize, old friend—the hour is growing late,
Not with urgency—but with ripeness.
Not a warning. An invitation.
Time keeps moving—faithful and relentless—like a river that never stops to ask permission.
Yet within you, something has been observing through these eyes since the beginning of time.
and has never moved an inch.
The seasons turn.
Winter arrives without apology.
The cold sharpens the air.
The wind cuts through the trees
like a blade reminding them:
let go.
We wait for spring—
for softer days, lighter garments,
for blossoms to return and whisper...
See? Nothing was ever lost.
Days thunder past like freight trains,
each one linked to the next,
hauling the same cargo—
the same hopes, the same fears,
the same unfinished longings—
only wearing different mask's.
Until one day…
The story pauses.
Your name—
given by others—
is etched into stone.
The titles you wore like armor,
the badges you tightened until you mistook them for skin,
are finally set down.
The world keeps turning dear friend, and age turns with it.
And life—
once loud, once urgent, once desperate to prove itself—
softens
into something tender.
The twists and triumphs,
the rises and the falls,
no longer demand defense.
The curtain descends.
The performance ends.
The film of your life reaches its final frame,
and the credits begin to roll—
the director, the actors,
the heroes and villains,
the supporting cast—
every soul who ever entered your scene.
And here is the grace, my friend:
You do not have to wait until crossing.
You can watch it now.
You can look back
with eyes no longer chasing victory—
only understanding.
You see the struggles.
The right turns and the wrong ones.
The hands that lifted you.
The moments where you caused pain.
And suddenly…
Karma is no longer an enemy.
It is revealed as a faithful teacher
who never stopped loving you.
You realize—quietly, gently—
that life was always One.
That others, were never others...
but mirrors and messengers,
appearing just long enough
to guide you home.
You bless them all.
Those you loved.
Those you resisted.
Those you wounded.
And with honesty that no longer hurts,
you see the final truth:
Every pain you gave
was given to yourself.
Every love you offered
was offered to yourself.
Every act of kindness,
every word of hope,
every cruelty, every silence—
it was all you,
meeting yourself in disguise.
Perhaps…
there was never anyone else.
For the One is the All...
playing every role
through you.
You bow.
Not in regret—
but in gratitude.
For having been allowed to play
in this astonishing gift called life.
For the shimmering illusion
that woke you from itself.
For this moment—now—
when you remember what you were
before being dressed
in this tightly knit spacesuit called a body.
Yes…
the body will rest.
But consciousness does not end.
It deepens.
It widens.
It evolves.
Like a lover slipping back into the Beloved.
Like a wave remembering the ocean.
Like light returning
to the source that never left it.
Come,
says the silence.
You were never late.
You were only dreaming.
Welcome back, old friend.
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