UNLIVED LIFE.

UNLIVED LIFE

They buried him gently.

No funeral bells.
No black clothed mourners.
No final prayer spoken over his cold earth.
Just a thousand tiny compromises,
laid one upon another
like leaves that fall from autumn trees.

They buried the child who danced when no music played.
They buried the dreamer who followed clouds to see where they were drifting.
They buried the lover who would have emptied his heart without counting the cost.
They buried the wild one, the fool, the singer, the writer of impossible plans.

Years passed.
The man built his life.
Strong walls.
A leak-proof roof.
Respectability in front facing windows, and behind the curtain.

Neighbours nodded approval.
He learned acceptable words,
the measured smile, the sensible answer.
He became reliable.
Dependable.
Safe.
And every achievement
added another brick
to the house he called himself.

Yet some nights
a sound came
through the floorboards.
Not loud.
Just enough
to disturb the silence.

A scratching.
A knocking.
A voice almost remembered.

At first he blamed fatigue.
Then age.
Then ingratitude.
Surely such a well fashioned man
had no right to feel such hunger.
Surely such a carefully assembled life
should feel like home?
Still, the knocking came.

One day
he saw a young woman
laughing too loudly.
A grey-haired man
learning to play piano,
A traveller
boarding a train with no certainty
beyond curiosity.

And unexpectedly something bitter
rose inside.
Not anger. Recognition because they were living with the keys he had thrown away.

That night
the knocking became an axe.
The floor split.
The cellar opened.
And there,
among forgotten songs
and dust-covered dreams,
stood the stranger.

“Who are you?”
asked the man.
The stranger smiled sadly.

“You know me,” he said.
“I am every road you refused to walk.
Every truth you swallowed.
Every love you locked behind your teeth.
I am the life you left waiting.”

The man expected accusation.
Instead, the stranger offered a hand.
“No one stole me from you.
You hid me.
To keep the peace.
To stay acceptable.
To avoid becoming
too much.
Too difficult.
Too alive.”

The house trembled.
Walls cracked.
Certainties fell like plaster.
And for a while
he stood among the ruins
of everything he thought he was.

Then slowly, very carefully,
he began to rebuild.
Neither larger nor safer.
Just more true.

He spoke words
that carried his own voice.
He chose roads
without asking permission.
He let mystery and wonder return.
Let sorrow return and let joy return.

The buried stranger walked beside him now,
no longer a ghost, now a companion.
And when people asked what had changed,
he struggled to explain.

How could he tell them
that the miracle
was not becoming someone new?
It was digging up someone sacred who had been waiting all along.
Patiently.
Silently.
Beneath the neat gardens
of a well-behaved life.