Wisdom is not loud.
It does not howl its triumph
Or wrap itself in applause.
Wisdom is the slow erosion of certainty,
The way decades press their weight into your marrow
Until you can no longer pretend
You are the same.
Wisdom is in the gravity of time—
It is the unblinking witness
To your life—
To every hour you survived,
And every hour you truly lived.
It has seen the nights you lay awake,
And the mornings you opened your eyes
With something like hope.
It remembers the laughter that broke through
When you least expected it.
The grace you offered yourself
In the smallest moments.
It has watched you gather strength
From sorrow and from joy,
From love,
And from the sheer wonder
That you are still here.
It knows the scars you carry,
And the quiet triumphs—
It is knowing
That endurance is not always victory,
That surviving is not the same as release.
It has seen how, even in your most hidden places,
Love still found you—
Wisdom is more than what you have withstood.
It is the fullness of all you have become.
Painting is how I listen. Writing is how I answer.