BEFORE THE WEEK AFTER
Oluwagbenga Abiola@oluwagbengaabiola322369
11 days ago
Before the Week After
I kept announcing my rest
like a public holiday that never came.
“Next week,” I would say,
folding my exhaustion into tomorrow
like a letter I was too busy to read.
Next week, I will breathe.
Next week, I will sit still.
Next week, I will let the world
spin without my fingerprints on it.
But the world is a noisy child.
It kept tugging my sleeve.
And I,
hero of small rooms,
defender of fragile dreams
answered every call
as though silence were a crime.
Sleep became a rumour.
Peace, a postponed appointment.
My bones signed petitions
my will refused to read.
I was always almost resting.
Almost pausing.
Almost choosing myself.
Until one day
time kept my promise for me.
And I rested.
Not the kind of rest
you wake up from with sunlight in your eyes.
Not the kind that forgives unfinished tasks.
This rest had no alarm clock.
The soil closed gently.
The noise grew distant.
And for the first time
no one tugged my sleeve.
But I was not relieved.
Because love does not switch off
when breath does.
I felt the ache of unfinished protection.
The sting of battles I meant to fight.
The faces I meant to shield
now standing alone in the wind.
I had mistaken endurance for strength.
Mistaken delay for discipline.
Mistaken “later”
for something guaranteed.
If I could speak from that quiet place,
I would not whisper about glory.
I would not praise sacrifice.
I would say,
Rest while your heart still drums in your chest.
Put down the armour before it fuses to your skin.
The people you protect
need you alive,
not legendary.
Because the week after
is not promised.
And forever
is too long
to realize
you should have closed your eyes
when you still could
and woken up again.
Written by @oluwagbengaabiola322369
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