Mgbe onye ji tete bu ututu ya — “Whenever one wakes up is his own morning.”
It’s an igbo proverb my mom has repeated over the last few months. And I’ve been wondering how many of my own mornings I have missed. Sleeping through sunrises; surrendering my day to fear, then regret; waiting for the storm to break, for a better self, a perfect moment—and all the while, life keeps slipping out my back door without so much as a goodbye.
But regret overstays his welcome. Offloads his misery where my imagination should be. He is stingy with his affirmations, unforgiving in my weakness, forgetful about the good things, apprehensive about the future, sees no value in the mundane. Regret tells me everyday that I’ve already wasted so much time, when he’s the one who’s been stealing all of it.
Idk. I think sometimes the moment we're waiting for is waiting on us—to make a decision, to sink our heels deep in resolve, and let the day keep dawning on our becoming.
Happy rising,
Chineze