If It Feels Like You’re Not Really Doing Anything Right Now, That’s Okay


From the subtle to the obvious fragments of its existence. From the crawling caterpillars to the racing cars. From the involuntary blinks to the calculated footsteps. From all of its simplicities and its intricacies, movement not only surrounds us, it is us.

Continuously evolving. Pervading the realms of the conscious and the subconscious. Continuously reminding us of its existence.

And living amongst that, we feel that its part and parcel of everything that we have to be. That we have to continuously move. That as much as it is us, we have to be it as well.

But sometimes we aren’t. Sometimes we feel stagnant. Sometimes it feels like we are going somewhere but not really going. Living in this paradox of mobility and immobility. And because of that we try to force things to happen. To reach this major thing we’re aiming for, the fastest way we can. To be that racing car.

But racing cars aren’t always racing. Expectations aren’t always a reality. Pressure doesn’t always mould diamonds. And we find ourselves where we were to begin with. Only this time, more aware of our shortcomings. More aware of of our immobility. More aware of the distance to the thing we’re aiming for.

And you know what? That’s okay.

The tortoise always gets to the finish line, regardless of what the hare does.

That’s the part of the story we were never really told. Irrespective of the pre-conceived notions we hold in realms we call expectation, everything evolves and moves at the rate at which it does.

Yes. You have the capacity to determine certain facets of its trajectory. Yes. You are the master of your own masterpiece. Yes. Try the hardest that you possibly can.

But when you reach out for something and feel nothing at the end of it. When you see something but can’t really look at it. When the crawling caterpillar takes forever to turn into a butterfly. Know that it will all be okay.

If it feels right and every part of you wants it bad enough. It’s part and parcel of your own metamorphosis. Every involuntary and calculated step is a dissection of the simple and the intricate parts of the greater labyrinth. And when you eventually find its exit.

When you eventually feel like you’re really doing something. You’ll realize that there was never a racing car, a hare or a tortoise. Only you.

A paradox. Continuously evolving.