The Patches vs. the Marrow

Life, in its manufactured form, comes stitched together with patches.
Cheap thrills, tourist stops, a checklist of “been there, seen that.”
Proof of having lived.
Not lived.

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The family trip is the perfect parable:
twenty places in five days, each one skimmed like a flat stone across water.
Eyes open, body moving, but spirit unfed.
Presence traded for logistics.
Wonder traded for the next stop.

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This is the patchwork life—entertaining enough to keep the mind distracted,
thin enough to keep the soul untroubled.
It keeps silence from seeping in.
It keeps the marrow of existence locked away.

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But marrow waits.
It waits in the canyon seen at dawn and again at dusk,
in the same rock walked past until its texture imprints in the palm,
in the silence that deepens when there is nowhere else to rush.

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The marrow is not proof—it doesn’t need proof.
It is lived reality, head-on, unpatched.
The marrow strips away the checklist and whispers:
Here. Stay. Become saturated.

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To trade patches for marrow is to stop chasing artifacts of life
and let life itself dissolve the need for artifacts.
No quilt, no cover, no escape.
Just you, and the truth that refuses to be rushed.