Not for everyone. Not for the many. For the few who still carry the weight—and the wonder—of memory.
I’m not writing to be viral.
I’m not writing to be liked.
I’m writing for a handful of men—and the few women who know men like us—who still believe that something tender, something stubborn, something unfinished lives inside them.
I’m writing for the man who sits on the edge of his bed at three in the morning, wondering where all the time went.
For the man who misses his father, even if he never knew how to love him right.
For the man who once chased the wrong things and finally, blessedly, ran out of road.
I’m writing for the man who still dreams in younger colors, even though the mirror says otherwise.
For the man who wants to believe it’s not too late—not for the book unwritten, the words unsaid, the forgiveness still waiting quietly at the door.
I’m writing for the man who carries silence like a second skin, but feels his heart thud harder when he reads words that remind him he's not alone.
And I’m writing for myself—for the boy I was, the man I became, the soul I’m still trying to save one honest sentence at a time.
If you find yourself here, reading these words, then maybe this was always meant for you too.
Come in. Sit down.
You're exactly on time.
—Jack
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