𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “The World Keeps Writing, But Somehow I’m Still Waiting” by Ashley Jhanelle G. Ramos

 

Published by: Iana Henson

Date Published: August 15, 2025

Time Published: 1:27 Pm

Category: Prose

Theme: Feeling left behind while it seems like everyone else is already beginning the different chapters of their life.

Lately, it feels like everyone in the world is writing faster than I ever learn how to follow. Like everyone else is already mid-paragraph, mid-plan, mid-life—while I'm still stuck with a book that's blank, left untouched.

Everyone is already starting different chapters, while I don't even have a pen to write.

Sometimes, as I watch the busy people that awaits through my window, I catch a glimpse of all the different words that have been written—chapters that are being lived. Some written neatly with precision, others written messily but with purpose, but everytime, there's always this knot that forms in my chest—a whisper urging me to move, to write, to do something, or else I'll be left behind, left to piece together a story using the fading ink of pens that have already been touched.

I watch from the corner of my eyes as everyone around me begins to plan, smiling as they talk about what they'll soon become. Everyone seems to know what they want to do with their lives, carrying a clear goal in mind. Meanwhile, I'm still left staring at the blank cover of my own book, unsure how—or what—to even write as the title of the story which I call life.

I watch from the sidelines as those around me starts to achieve their goals, reach their dreams—slowly building the framework of their lives—while I haven't even placed the first brick as a mark. I'm still here, frozen as I stare at the first chapter of the book I call mine. Nothing inside, too unsure of the narrative I aspire. 

I watch from my window as the moonlight spills faintly across the sidewalk, just enough to illuminate the busy silhouettes of people walking. Some in suits, some in uniforms—all of them walking forward with a page in mind, a chapter to complete. Their books already have plots, some tattered with age, others still fresh with ink. Meanwhile, I haven't even spent enough time doing my own thing to know what I should call the first chapter.

I watch as my hands tremble on the first page—too afraid of writing the wrong words, of creating a narrative that might disappoint the silent readers I imagine reading from afar—even though, I know deep down, I’m the only one holding the pen, the only one who gets to write this story of mine.

I keep watching, but not doing anything—not knowing what I'm supposed to do.

But maybe not every story has to start with a confident line.

Maybe I was never truly running behind.

Maybe it's okay to start slowly—to take my time figuring out what I want, and who I want to be first. And when something doesn't feel right, it's okay to start over—to erase and treat the old drafts not as mistakes and failures, but as a lesson I needed to continue with a much better story.

Life isn't about whose writing their lives faster, and it's never too late to start.

I'm still just learning how to hold the pen—how to write in a way that feels like my own.

I don't have to write like I'm running out of time—

because I never am.