Scroll of the Patchwork Life

It is not that men never stopped to see what is true.
It is that they never lived anything remotely true to begin with.

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Their days are stitched from fragments—borrowed scripts, advertisements, traditions, the tired breath of expectation.
A patchwork existence: busy, noisy, dripping with activity yet hollow at the core.
They mistake performance for life. They eat plastic fruit and call it dinner.
They rehearse on a stage they never knew was a stage.

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But truth does not sit in their itineraries, their albums, their lists checked off in pride.
Truth erupts only in the unscheduled:
a breath taken without thought of the next,
a silence that cannot be filled,
a moment too raw to be manufactured.

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Life begins not when the patchwork is perfected,
but when it is burned,
and a man dares to taste the orchard that was hidden behind the plastic all along.