Fucking Do It

Do it scared.

Do it unsure.

Do it even when you’re certain you’ll fail.

Do it against every odd.

Do it—and live like hell while you still can.

You’ve lived so small, so carefully calculated.

Step outside. Let the sun kiss your face for once.

Take down your perfectly polished hair.

Slip into something wild. And run.

Run toward that dream that refuses to let you sleep.

Chase the ache that gnaws at your ribs and whispers, there’s more than this.

Because if you don’t—it will kill you slowly.

Not your body, but your soul.

You play perfect, but I see you.

Some days you almost believe the act.

But I know the truth: what started as a crack has carved a canyon inside you.

And most days, it feels like you’re screaming into the wind, hoping it’ll carry your voice to someone—anyone—who understands.

But they won’t. And that’s the point.

No one is coming. No one is meant to.

You have to do it for you.

You have to burn the life you’ve outgrown and walk barefoot into the unknown.

Do it because this might be your only chance.

Do it because “good enough” is just a prettier name for dying slowly.

Do it shaking. Do it sobbing.

But damn it, do it.