It's been years since I last saw her: this little girl, opening her little arms and somehow embracing the whole wide world. If it weren't for all the pictures, I would've thought I made her up, for sure. But she was real, and she was there, very much alive ...
She meant a lot to me, she did. However, I didn't cry when she passed. It's hard to explain, and I don't mean to sound heartless because, trust me, I am not. I didn't cry then, but I did cry later. As years went by, the more lonely I felt without her and the further away she seemed to be. And so, as my tribute to her, I sometimes do unimaginable things. I've had people calling me peculiar because of those things I do, and you know what? I always take it as a compliment. I also pity those people who find me peculiar because I imagine they must lead a very boring life. I say whatever is on my mind, most of the time. She was very straightforward, you see, and I tend to feel her presence when I practice the art of speaking my mind.
I have these dreams, these aspirations. They are so out there, but I have them, and I hold on to them. It gets harder as I get older, and they sometimes start to seem out of reach. Good old doubt, nothing new, but as familiar as it is, it's still a pain. But there is also this crazy belief system that runs through my body like electricity. Whatever I may be feeling, she's there. She's cheering me on, she believes in me, she's so damn confident.
But sometimes people call me naive, and that's the one thing that makes me feel uneasy. Naive? What do they mean? I feel so free and so tall, but to them I just seem silly and small. Maybe I am what they say I am. And then, she floats from above onto my shoulder, and I know exactly why she's there. To reassure me. She doesn't say a thing. She never speaks. She's just there, and that is enough. Because that's really everything I need. She reassures me, knits the doubt into a large blanket and sets it on fire. She's all about grand gestures. I'm so excited to have her around that way. I am not naive, they are.
I wish I remembered the sound of her voice. I can't bring it back to my ear, no matter how hard I try. Maybe that's why she stays quiet. I don't want to make her into something she isn't. But as I forget her voice, I will never forget her spirit. I tend to visit some dark places, sometimes. I don't want to, but you know how it is. The human has only that much control over the mind. I almost wish to disappear, sometimes. Disappear, you know, vanish into thin air. That's usually when the dreams slip away from my tight grip and I suddenly feel as though I've set myself for a life of a failure. She takes her sweet time to get back to me, then. She lets me mourn the loss that never even happened. She lets me feel. All of it. It's almost like she wants me to suffer, when in fact, she just needs me to take time to pick myself up and remind myself of my only true sense in life. She gets overly confident and she trusts me too much. But she's always somehow right to do so. I wake up the next day and belittle my outburst. Only then I almost hear her whisper: 'This is not just your dream, this is your purpose.'
She is real, and she is there, still very much alive. She is, in fact, me.
About the Creator
A.J.
Singer/Songwriter/Foodie/Dog person/DIY junkie/Scorpio
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“The Man Who Never Missed a Day”
When I was 17, I met a man who delivered newspapers in the rain. Not in a casual, half-hearted way—but fully committed, every single morning. He would leave his house before sunrise, his coat soaked, shoes falling apart, and the wind cutting through him like a knife. Yet, despite the cold and wet, he smiled at everyone on his route. To a teenager like me, it was both confusing and inspiring. I remember the first time I saw him struggle with a bundle of papers that seemed almost too heavy for him. He slipped on the wet pavement, muttered something under his breath, and kept walking. When he reached the next house, he knocked on the door, handed over the paper, and smiled as the door closed. That smile was strange to me—it wasn’t pride or satisfaction, it was… calm. Almost peaceful. Curious, I approached him one morning. “Why don’t you take a day off when it’s so hard?” I asked, shivering in my hoodie as the rain soaked me through. He laughed, a deep, gravelly sound that didn’t sound annoyed, only knowing. “Son, nobody cares about today,” he said, shaking his head. “What matters is tomorrow. You build your life the same way: one small effort, every day, even when nobody notices.” At the time, I didn’t understand. My life felt urgent, like it had to explode with success immediately. I was chasing big ideas, jumping from project to project, leaving most half-finished. I thought motivation was everything—without the spark of inspiration, nothing mattered. The idea of showing up every single day, even when tired, even when bored, even when invisible, felt almost insane. I watched him for weeks. Rain or shine, he was there. I started noticing small details I hadn’t seen before—the careful folding of the papers, the way he adjusted his wet coat to protect the bundle, the extra minute he took to smile at a child running out to grab the paper. Every morning, the same ritual. Every morning, the same effort. And yet, nobody cheered. Nobody noticed. Years passed. I went to college, chasing my own “big dreams,” my own versions of instant success. I started businesses, abandoned them; learned new skills, stopped halfway; made promises to myself I couldn’t keep. I told myself I was working toward greatness, but mostly, I was chasing the idea of success, not the work itself. Motivation was my fuel, and when it ran out, I stopped moving. Meanwhile, the memory of that man stayed with me. The quiet diligence, the smile in the pouring rain. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he had already taught me the most important lesson: consistency matters more than talent, and persistence matters more than inspiration. Years later, I found myself struggling. A career path crumbled beneath me, a relationship ended badly, and my confidence had hit rock bottom. I remembered the man with the newspapers. I thought about how small, invisible efforts can be the hardest to trust—because results are not immediate, and recognition is not guaranteed. Yet, he had shown me that those small efforts accumulate, slowly but inevitably, into a life that cannot be ignored. I started experimenting with this principle myself. Every morning, I wrote 500 words for my stories—even when tired, even when uninspired. I practiced my skills quietly, without posting or sharing. I did the work not for applause, but because it mattered to the person I wanted to become. Some days, it felt like nothing was happening. Some days, I wanted to give up. But then I remembered the man with the newspapers, and I kept showing up. It didn’t take long before I started noticing changes. The words I wrote flowed better, ideas connected in ways they never had before. People began noticing my work. Small victories became more frequent, and my confidence started to rebuild. What had seemed like meaningless, invisible effort had quietly transformed my life. That man never became famous. He never went viral. He had no thousands of followers, no awards, no recognition. But every paper he delivered, every smile he shared, every step he took in the rain—it all mattered. Each day of consistent effort built a life he owned completely, a life he could be proud of. I realized then that success is not a moment. It is not a sudden flash of recognition or a single lucky opportunity. Success is the sum of the quiet, consistent decisions we make when no one is watching. It’s the choice to wake up when it’s easier to sleep. It’s the decision to work when it’s easier to scroll on your phone. It’s the effort we put in when the world doesn’t applaud. And the truth is simple: showing up every day is more powerful than talent, motivation, or luck. Talent fades. Motivation fluctuates. But showing up—every single day, rain or shine—creates results you cannot imagine. Just like the man in the rain, your efforts may not be recognized immediately. People may overlook them, circumstances may feel unfair, progress may seem invisible. But over time, the cumulative effect of your daily effort will speak for itself. One day, the world will notice. One day, your consistency will transform your life. So, start today. Don’t wait for motivation. Don’t wait for inspiration. Show up. Every day. One small effort. One action. One step at a time. Let your grind be louder than your excuses. Because the man who never missed a day wasn’t special. He was ordinary. But through persistence, he became unstoppable. And so can you.
By Ihtisham Ulhaq2 days ago in Motivation
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