To possess the herald of the world,
the coveted position of top in a craft that is ephemeral,
a fleeting and whimsical desire that has now become
the embodiment of your lasting grief,
what once sat with you and enjoyed the company of millions
now desires a hole that can only be filled
by what you can no longer do.
You mistook the summit for permanence.
You mistook applause for shelter.
You mistook repetition for devotion.
What was once instinct hardened into ritual,
and ritual into obligation,
until even joy learned to speak in the language of debt.
The craft asked for everything gently at first,
then without asking at all.
You fed it time.
You fed it sleep.
You fed it the names of people
who waited patiently to be chosen over ambition.
You fed it your body until it learned
how to fail you precisely when needed most.
Now the silence mocks you
with the sound of what you were.
Every empty hour hums with comparison.
Every breath negotiates with memory.
You are no longer haunted by losing the crown
but by surviving it.
By waking up without the permission of purpose.
By discovering that mastery does not come
with instructions for departure.
What does it mean to be praised
for something that will not wait for you?
What does it mean to be remembered
for an act your hands can no longer perform?
Grief is not always the loss of people.
Sometimes it is the loss of fluency.
The loss of the body as a trustworthy instrument.
The loss of effort translating cleanly into meaning.
You still speak the language,
but the world has moved its accent.
You still understand the rhythm,
but your timing is no longer forgiven.
Tempted to excavate yourself into usefulness again,
tempted to mistake endurance for resurrection.
But the hole does not want achievement.
It wants truth.
