We choose how we see the world,
every day, in quiet ways.
It’s the lens we look through,
the stories we tell ourselves
about what’s real and what’s imagined.
Some say the world is hard,
sharp edges and closed doors,
but I’ve seen you paint it soft,
coloring the cracks with hope,
turning the grey into something golden.
You’ve made the impossible seem close,
like it’s only ever one thought away.
We create the world we see,
with every glance, every word we hold onto,
like sculptors with invisible clay.
We choose whether the sky is a ceiling
or an endless expanse,
whether the day’s routine is a grind
or a rhythm we dance to.
It’s in the way you smile at strangers,
like they matter more than they know.
The way you find light even when the shadows
press heavy,
your eyes always seeking the glimmer.
I wonder,
is this how we make it all real?
By choosing the better story,
the brighter version,
until one day we wake up
and it’s the only world we know.
Because what is life but the stories we believe,
the versions we choose to see?
We are architects of our own sky,
creators of our own horizon.
And maybe, just maybe,
if we keep building, keep choosing,
we’ll find the world we made
is the one we’ve always been waiting for.
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