Vox Meditantis

Wait until you’re ready, I whispered to myself at twenty-three, as though readiness arrived like parcels in the post, neatly labelled, signed for, guaranteed.

I told my trembling hands to still themselves, convinced my racing heart to slow its gallop into sense. Be sensible, I counselled, think it through again.

And so I thought. And thought. And thought some more, whilst others stumbled forward into glorious mistakes, collected scars like medals, wore their failures as boutonnieres.

I built a fortress out of maybe next year, furnished rooms with when the time is right, hung paintings of let’s see how others fare first.

The irony, of course, is this: readiness is not a gift bestowed by patient waiting – it’s forged in the very fire I spent decades circling,

afraid to feel the heat upon my face. The door I never opened? It was never locked. I simply stood there, hand upon the latch,

rehearsing entrance lines until the house fell dark and everyone had gone home, leaving just an echo of the life I might have lived

if I’d been fool enough to walk straight in, unready, unrehearsed, and utterly alive.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.