I Think I’ll Stay For A While 

I think I’ll stay for a while, because life has started to feel like a hallway I’m constantly sprinting down, grabbing at door handles I don’t even remember choosing. Somewhere along the way, the days became something to conquer instead of something to live inside. We chase schedules, deadlines, milestones, budgets, debts, always measuring, always counting, always rushing. What happened to the old art of simply being? Of lingering without guilt, without explanation, without checking the time as if it’s about to scold us.

I think I’ll stay for a while, right here in the morning, before the world starts demanding things from me. There was a time when mornings weren’t just a launchpad. When you could sit with a warm cup of something and watch the light stretch slowly across the room. Now we drink coffee like it’s medicine, gulping it while answering emails and scrolling through other people’s lives. We’ve forgotten how soft the beginning of a day can be when we don’t shove it out of the way.

I think I’ll stay for a while, in the quiet between messages, because even conversations have become hurried and harried. We talk in fragments now, modern telegrams with cryptic acronyms, quick replies, half-sentences, voice notes sped up to double time. Even laughter gets squeezed in like a task. I miss when people would sit together and speak without urgency, without multitasking, without glancing down every few seconds as if something more important might appear. I miss when silence wasn’t awkward, just comfortable proof that love didn’t need constant entertainment.

I think I’ll stay for a while, at the dinner table, because eating used to mean something. It used to be a pause, a gathering, a small daily ceremony. Now meals are often eaten standing up, eaten in cars, eaten over keyboards, eaten while thinking about what comes next. We chew quickly, swallow quickly, move on quickly, as if even hunger is an inconvenience. There is something intrinsically grounding about sitting down long enough to taste your food, long enough to feel grateful that you have it, long enough to remember that you are alive.

I think I’ll stay for a while, in the middle of a walk, because walking used to be an experience instead of an alternative method of transport. We used to wander, sometimes even aimlessly, take the long way home, pop into a store where the salespeople knew you since you were a child and catch up on the latest family news. Now we march with purpose, headphones in, eyes forward, steps calculated. We don’t stop to watch leaves tumble across the pavement or notice how the air smells different after rain. We forget that the world is full of tiny miracles, quietly happening whether we acknowledge them or not.

I think I’ll stay for a while, in the presence of someone I love, because even love has started to feel scheduled. We plan phone calls like appointments. We squeeze affection into weekends. We text “miss you” while rushing through everything that keeps us apart. We used to sit beside people without needing an excuse, without needing to fill the space. Now we’re always halfway elsewhere, always thinking about what we should be doing instead of who we’re with. We forget that love is built in unhurried moments, not grand gestures.

I think I’ll stay for a while, in old memories that still smell like summer evenings and warm kitchens. I miss the days when time felt stretchy, when a single afternoon could hold an entire universe. When you could spend hours doing nothing and still feel like the day was full. Childhood had no obsession with productivity. No panic about wasted time. We didn’t need milestones to prove we were growing. We just grew, naturally, the way flowers do, slowly and without applause.

I think I’ll stay for a while, in the sound of rain against the window, because once upon a time we used to stop for weather. We used to pause and watch storms roll in, listen to thunder, feel small and safe at the same time. Now we complain about delays, wet shoes, ruined plans. We treat nature like an inconvenience instead of a reminder that we are not meant to live at full speed all the time. Rain was never the enemy. It was always an invitation to rest.

I think I’ll stay for a while, with a book in my hands, because reading used to feel like slipping into another world. Now we skim, we scroll, we consume information like fast food. We read summaries instead of stories. We jump from one thing to the next, afraid to be bored, afraid to sit too long with one thought. But there’s a kind of quiet healing that comes from letting a story unfold slowly, from giving something your full attention, from letting your mind breathe.

I think I’ll stay for a while, in the middle of a song, because music used to be something you felt. You’d sit with it. You’d replay it until it became part of you. Now songs are background noise while we do everything else. We don’t let melodies sink into our bones the way they used to. We don’t dance in kitchens as often. We don’t sing loudly in cars without worrying who might hear. Somewhere along the way, we started acting like joy should be subtle.

I think I’ll stay for a while, at the edge of an ordinary moment, because ordinary moments are the ones that quietly become your life. The smell of laundry drying. The warmth of sunlight on your face. A friend’s voice calling your name. The way someone looks at you when they’re not trying to impress you, just loving you. We chase the achievements, milestones, the next level, the next goal, without realising that the “big life” is stitched together from small, gentle pieces.

I think I’ll stay for a while, because I’m tired of living like I’m late for my own existence. Tired of believing rest must be earned and joy must be justified. Tired of acting like slowing down is a weakness instead of a wisdom. Maybe the bravest thing we can do in a world that demands speed is to linger. To savour. To stay.

I think I’ll stay for a while, and maybe that’s the beginning of remembering how to live again, not in the future, not in the next achievement, not in the version of myself I’m constantly trying to become, but here. In this moment. In this breath. In this quiet, stubborn decision to let life be something I experience, not something I race through.