Old, bitter, & just worn down

I used to count the cracks in the sidewalk like tally marks for every disappointment I’d endured. People were loud, the world was ugly, and every kindness felt like a trick. I didn’t notice the flowers growing in the gutters or the way sunlight sometimes turned dust into gold. Then, one moment—pain like a bolt through my chest, darkness rushing in, and silence. When I opened my eyes again, I saw the same world, but it wasn’t the same at all. The sidewalk cracks were rivers, the flowers in the gutters were rebellions of color, the faces around me—lined, tired, laughing—were proof that life still fought to be beautiful. And I realized it was never the world that was ugly. It was the way I was looking at it.