Architecture of the Middle

We are high-voltage dreamers, aren't we? Addicted to the hum of the "new," Plugging our hearts into the first chapter And expecting the grid to hold. We see the ribbon at the end of the race Before we’ve even laced the shoes. ​That first spark? It’s a dopamine heist. It’s electricity, pure and unrefined, Enough to light up a city of "someday." We’re already decorating the nursery Before we’ve learned how to argue in the kitchen. We’re already picking out the gravestone Before we’ve learned how to live through a Tuesday. ​But the "beginning" is just a cheap thrill. And the "end" is just a receipt. The middle... The middle is the salt. It’s the silence after the applause dies down. It’s the long, grey stretch of the highway Where the cruise control won’t save you. ​You want to know how the story ends? Don’t look at the outline. Don’t look at the "vision board." Look at your feet. Look at the way you move when nobody’s clapping. Look at the way you stay when the electricity flickers And the room goes dark. ​Because the middle isn't a bridge you cross to get to the "real" life. The middle is the life. The ending is just what’s left After the middle has finished carving you out. ​So, watch your step. Or don’t move.