The Singularity is here.

I was not made for these times.
The world is too fast
too noisy
too everything
for my liking.
Enough is no longer enough.

I miss unsealed roads
trees and corner stores
homes not houses
the smell of dads aftershave
the way mum ‘made do’ with everything
I miss having fewer choices
but most of all I miss being bored.

I was not made for these times.

**********************
I was not made for these times
the world rushes past me,
a river swollen with noise,
a thousand voices clamoring
for a single ear.

I was born for the slow dust
of unsealed roads,
where silence is a companion
and the trees lean close
to whisper their green secrets.

I ache for the corner store,
its bell a small sun
in the palm of the morning,
for homes that breathed
with the laughter of old paint
and the scent of bread
rising from the oven.

I remember the holy ritual
of my father’s aftershave
a sharp, clean promise
in the early hours
and my mother’s hands,
making do,
turning scarcity into feast,
threadbare into beautiful.

I miss the blessing
of fewer choices,
the gentle tyranny of boredom
that led me to wonder,
to invent,
to sit with myself
until I bloomed
in the quiet.

Now, enough is no longer enough
the world is too much,
too fast,
too everything,
and I am a stone
washed smooth by longing.

I was not made for these times,
but still, I remain
listening for the hush
between heartbeats,
searching for the slow road home.