If Rumi Was Really Charles Bukowski

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I drank the kind of wine that didn’t leave me staggering into walls or talking too loud. It just scraped the noise out of my head. Funny thing—once everything inside shut up, everything outside started spinning. The stars, the streets, the clocks, the people with their big plans and cheap lies. The whole damn universe looked like it had finally lost its balance.

I stayed put.

Not because I was strong. I was just too empty to move.

There’s a place where the wheel can’t throw you off because you’re the hub instead of another spoke. You don’t find it by being clever. You find it after you’ve worn yourself out chasing everything that won’t last.

People keep asking where that place is.

Wrong question.

It isn’t somewhere you go. It’s what’s left after all the running, all the pretending, all the victories that felt like hangovers the next morning.

So drink until the glass means nothing. Dance until there’s nobody left trying to look good. Then stand there while the whole crazy show keeps turning.

You’ll realize it was never about stopping the world.

It was about finally stopping yourself.