Feast On Your Life

It’s a reflection—a quiet coming home. 

No performance. Just the truth.

One day, without warning, you’ll come home to yourself.
Not because you finally “arrived,”
But because you’re tired of being elsewhere.

You’ll pass a mirror and not flinch.
You’ll look into your own eyes—not to fix, critique, or prove anything—
But to simply say: “Hello. I missed you.”

There was always a part of you that stayed behind.
The part that loves without needing to be useful.
The one who laughed too loud, cried too easily, and dreamed too wildly.
You left them to survive the world.
But they waited.

They waited through the careers, the heartbreaks, the edits you made to be liked.
They waited through all the times you chose being chosen over being whole.
They waited through silence, betrayal, and pretending.
And still, when you turn to them, they smile.

Sit, they say. Eat.

No grand gestures. No punishments. Just a quiet table with wine and bread.
And a kind of love that doesn’t need to be earned.

You remember then:
You are not a project.
You are not a brand.
You are not a resume or a role.

You are a story. A body. A life.

So take down the old letters, the crumpled prayers, the photos where your eyes held too much.
Don’t analyze them.
Hold them.

Peel your image from the glass—not to disappear,
But to meet yourself outside the mirror.
To sit beside the version of you that kept the light on.

Then, in the quiet, without performance or polish, you feast.

You feast on your life.
As it was. As it is.
And finally, it belongs to you.