Jia Zhenia

As I stood beneath the evergreens,
their needles brushed in gold by the sinking sun,
I found myself asking—

why does work hold such weight in your world?

Is it the title,
the quiet gleam of prestige,
the promise of more—
or is it something deeper,
a fire you tend with devotion?

You spoke of potential
as something to be fulfilled,
as though a life is only worthy
when fully spent, fully used—

as though we are vessels
measured by how much we can hold
and how quickly we can pour ourselves out.

And I wonder—

what if someone chooses otherwise?

What if they linger
in the softness of the present,
palms open to the ordinary light,
content to be—
not more, not better,
just here?

To savor what is already given,
without the urgency to become.

Would that be so wrong?

Or is there a quiet kind of courage
in not chasing,
in not proving,
in simply staying—
long enough
to feel the sun
before it disappears?