Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
There is a quiet danger in believing there will always be another morning.
Another chance to begin.
Another season to travel.
Another page to write.
Another reason to become the person waiting somewhere beyond tomorrow.
Tomorrow is remarkably persuasive.
It asks for nothing except patience,
and promises that the courage required today
will somehow arrive with the sunrise.
But tomorrow has an unsettling habit
of introducing another tomorrow,
until years slip by with scarcely a sound,
leaving behind a life that feels less lived
than carefully preserved.
Comfort rarely announces itself as an enemy.
It arrives as an evening on the sofa,
a dream postponed until circumstances improve,
a conversation that can surely wait,
a risk that seems wiser to avoid.
It asks only for one more day.
One more excuse.
One more delay.
There is an odd safety in standing still.
No failure waits for those who never begin.
No rejection finds what is never offered.
No disappointment follows dreams that remain forever imagined.
But neither does wonder.
The mountains remain unclimbed.
The oceans remain unseen.
The songs remain unsung.
The stories remain unwritten.
Potential slowly becomes memory
without ever becoming reality.
Time does not demand permission to continue.
It simply does.
The calendar keeps surrendering its pages.
The body quietly changes.
The mirror grows unfamiliar,
while the list of things still waiting
grows shorter only because the days themselves do.
Perhaps that is the saddest kind of regret—
not looking back upon mistakes,
or failed attempts,
or impossible ambitions,
but upon all the beautiful possibilities
that never had the chance to fail at all.
Because failure belongs to those who dared.
Regret belongs to everything
that remained forever untouched.
And what a heartbreaking exchange it is,
to trade the one brief,
astonishing gift of existence
for the effortless comfort
of never quite beginning.
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WHERE WORDS MEET MORNING LIGHT
BEGIN EACH Week WITH SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL
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Poetry by Britt Wolfe:
Grief is a peculiar thing. It doesn't always arrive with dignity or eloquence. Sometimes it comes disguised as irritation, disbelief, or the utterly unreasonable desire to scold someone for something they cannot possibly undo. I've been thinking about the absurdity of permanence, the extraordinary audacity of a world that simply carries on, and the strange way loss can make even our most exasperating memories feel unbearably precious. Well, That Was Stupid is a little irreverent, a little indignant, and considerably more heartbroken than it would like to admit. Because sometimes, when something is too enormous to comprehend, all we can manage is to point at the universe and tell it what an absolutely ridiculous thing it's done. 💚