“Sense of urgency”—it wasn't just a habit; it was my pulse.

I was always racing a clock that only I could hear.

I find myself recoiling at those who lack it, those who move through life with a languid entitlement, as if the universe owes them an eternity.

I’d bristle at the mere sight of their stillness. Why aren't they moving?

Or maybe…

It’s just me. I was forged in the "how" and the "fastest."

I became a spectator of my own life, hyper-aware of the gaze of others, obsessed with the geography of being first.

Pressure.

"Calm" was a foreign tongue. "Gentle" was a myth.

To me, patience and freedom felt more like stagnant air, suffocating, heavy.

Time wasn't a gift; it was my favorite cage.

Perfection was the only constant I allowed.

It’s a strange irony that I resent their slow pace, yet oh—how I dream about it.

I want to breathe without this phantom deadline.

I want to stop treating my life like a sprint and finally learn how to just... linger.

// Words by Dirae