Ink and Invitation

October 31, 2025

“We call things into being long before we realise what we have invited.”

Some people will say I’m strange for noticing this — but lately I’ve been unsettled by how many walk the streets carrying death and darkness on their skin.
Skulls grinning from shoulders.
Demons curled along arms.
Faces twisted in torment inked into chests and backs.

They remind me of some very bad acid trips I had in the early 1970s — when the veil tore too far, and I didn’t know how to close it again.

People say, “It’s just art.”
But I’ve lived long enough to know symbols aren’t neutral.
They call. They invite. They open doors.

I’m always reminded, when I see rebellious young Greeks covered in tattoos, that in ancient Greece these stigmata were not marks of identity or defiance.
They were punishments — burned or cut into criminals, slaves, and prisoners of war. A permanent sign of ownership — of being claimed.
Our ancestors believed that what was carved into the skin also carved its meaning into the soul.

For thousands of years, humans carried symbols for blessing — crosses, icons, beads, prayers folded into pockets, saints’ names whispered under breath.
We understood that what we placed close to the body had power.
We understood to be careful.

I carry a cross given to me by my mother when I was a child.
She told me it held a tiny splinter of the real cross Jesus was crucified on.
She warned me never to open the locket because the splinter was so fine my breath might blow it away.
So I never opened it.
And I wear it every day.

People ask if I was never curious.
But if it was real — and I breathed it away — what then?

Wearing a cross around the neck is not the same as inscribing a cross into the skin.

I’m not judging anyone.
I’ve walked my own shadowed paths.
I know what it is to open a door without realising what enters with it.
So when I say these images feel like invitations to something dark — I say it softly, from remembering, not from any desire to be right.

Some will disagree. Some will shake their heads.
That’s fine.

But I won’t place an image alongside these words.
I have no wish to give those symbols more room than they already take.
To show them would be to help them travel.

So I speak quietly here, without pictures:

There are forces we forget at our own cost.
And disbelief does not protect us from what we call forth.

No argument here — only a feeling I could not ignore.

That is all.

1 Comment | art, attention, community art, consciousness | Tagged: , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

The Bucket and the Sea

October 11, 2025

Written two decades after the Flotillas of Hope voyage — a small act on a wide sea that still echoes today.

The Bucket and the Sea

They call it a bucket list now — a catalogue of things to consume before death. Mountains to be conquered, rivers to be cruised, skydives to prove we were here. It sounds brave until you see the queues — climbers waiting their turn to summit Everest like shoppers at a checkout. Even the gods must turn away.

My own list was never written. It unfolded quietly, without permission. One day it became a voyage — a small flotilla bound for Nauru, its sails stitched from conscience rather than canvas. I had never sailed before, but joined those who had — experienced skippers who trusted purpose as much as compass. We went not for glory, but to bear witness — to shame our own government into releasing those who had been forgotten.

We never reached the island. Navy boats met us on the horizon, their warnings slicing through wind and salt. We turned back, our message carried instead by waves and news wires. And somehow, impossibly, it worked: seventy-seven refugees were released. Not because we were powerful, but because the sea has a way of amplifying truth.

There were no medals at the end, no television crews waiting on shore. Just salt on our lips and a strange, enduring silence — the kind that follows when the world briefly tilts toward justice.

So when I see others chasing their “bucket lust,” when they pay for their Everest or their Rhine cruise, I remember how it felt to sail into the unknown with nothing to sell and everything to lose. That was the real summit — a crossing not upward, but outward, beyond the self and into something vast, unforgiving, and sacred.

Some journeys are not about ascent. They are about surrender — and the rare, salt-stung moments when the wind itself seems to whisper: You’ve already arrived.

Flotillas of Hope was a 2004 Australian humanitarian voyage protesting the offshore detention of asylum seekers on Nauru. Although the boats were turned back by naval patrols, the action drew international attention — and soon after, of the hundreds detained, seventy-seven refugees were released.

Leave a Comment » | asylum seekers, attention, community art, consciousness, flotillas of hope, human rights, politics, travel | Tagged: , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

The Stone Seeker: A Myth of the Wandering Soul

October 2, 2025

A departure from my usual posts — this one takes the form of myth, an inner journey written as an allegory. I offer it as a companion to my ongoing stories.

He was called Stavros, which means Cross, and that was his burden — and his path.

One day, in a time that was no time, he heard the silent summons. Not from the sky, but from the pulse within the earth. He set out, carrying nothing but his breath and the ache of questions. He climbed the ancient spine of Sinai without sleep, ascending stone upon stone, as if walking up the ribs of a forgotten god. At the summit, the sun did not answer him — but it showed him he was not alone.

The descent was harder. That is the truth of all peaks. He reached the foot of the mountain and sat by the monastery of Katherine, where silence grows like lichen on old stone. There he met the Gatekeeper — a monk whose heart had fossilised into ritual. Stavros spoke the sacred tongue, but the Gatekeeper did not recognise him. He uttered the Word — “Yunan” — and dismissed him like a leaf blown against the stone walls.

So the Seeker left the sacred walls and returned to the road. It was on this road that he met the Trickster Guide — a Bedouin named Mohamed, who spoke through music and mischief. He offered herbs not for healing but for vision. He rolled a joint while guiding the chariot at great speed. Smoke curled like a serpent toward the heavens, and the desert began to shimmer.

Mohamed showed him the living map: dunes that were coastlines, mountains that were camels in repose. “This is Sinai,” he said, “and there is the Red Sea.” In that moment, the Seeker saw geography become prophecy. The land was not just land — it was a scroll unrolling.

Mohamed led him to a mosque, a café, a grove of planted trees. “We are of the 15 tribes,” the Guide said. “We plant what will shade the unborn.” The Seeker ate with him, drank the dark tea of mystery, and vanished into moonlit streets.

Then came the Labyrinth.

In the night city, he was lost among alleyways, where cats whispered secrets and doors led nowhere. He emerged by chance, or fate, and met the Scribe, who wrote his name in the language of the ancestors. “All men have three names,” said the Scribe, “but only one is true.”

The Seeker travelled again — across waters, under stars, on feluccas that rocked like cradles of time. He met companions with names like runes: Linda, Olga, Shayari. Together they smoked, drank rakii, and watched angels dissolve into the air like incense.

He arrived at a threshold: the City of Columns. There, under a sky bleached of memory, he sat on sand and turned a plastic bottle into a shrine. He waited for a chariot to carry him across the Nile of forgetting. Someone called him “the Greek with eight children,” and he laughed. He had none — and yet carried thousands within him.

Then came the Two Georges.

One was a Potter. One was a Priest of the Inner Fire. They saw in Stavros something he had hidden from himself. “You evoke the honour of Christ in others,” they said. “You wear innocence like armour.” They fed him macaroni and truth. In return, they asked for stories.

And so he spoke.

And in speaking, he remembered.

Dialogue became divination. Each question was a key. Each story a lost scroll. “In dialogue,” said George, “there is living transmission. The book you write is not of ink. It is breath, shared.”

They spoke of the monk on Athos who gave him a stone. “Leave this on the mountain,” he had said. And so Stavros carried it until the burden became a prayer. They spoke of karma, of grace, of gifts that are given but never earned.

Then came the desecration.

He passed through Luxor and saw the sign — McDonald’s, Temple of Luxor Street. The Golden Arches beside eternal stone. He took a photo, not to remember, but to mourn. Some desecrations are not loud. Some come wrapped in convenience.

And still, a stranger in Cairo whispered: “Welcome.” One word, like a flame in the dust.

The Seeker came to understand: giving and receiving were not separate acts. He had received shelter, food, names, music, silence. He had given stories, listening, laughter, witness. There was no accounting. Only flow.

He saw now that the journey had not been from place to place, but from self to soul. He gave before he received. He received before he gave. It was not barter. It was the hidden law.

And then — the Word.

“Sorry,” they said, “is just a word.” But he knew better. The Word began the world. Words held power, memory, vibration. Words could curse. Words could carry. Words could redeem.

He left the stone on the mountain.

He returned carrying only light.

Leave a Comment » | alchemy, consciousness, Experimental Writing, Expression, fiction, odyssey, personal, poetry, surrealism, symbolism, travel, writing | Tagged: , , , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

Near Shore, Far Out

October 1, 2025

I keep reading about experienced sailors dying close to shore. Not in the middle of the Pacific, not after months at sea — but within sight of land. And each time, something stirs uneasily inside me.

Because I once sailed four thousand kilometres there and back to Nauru. And I had no experience. None. No yachtmaster’s ticket, no decades at the helm. Just a call, a cause, and an instinct that said: go.

I wasn’t alone, though — I joined experienced skippers and crew who knew the sea far better than I did. My leap was into their world, not a solo crossing.

At the time, it felt like courage, or maybe necessity. Looking back now, it feels different. It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff without knowing if the parachute on my back would open. I tremble at the thought. I used Astrology for both my horoscope and the horoscope of the Flotillas of Hope to justify the decision to send the Call to Action to Nauru. To justify my, now in retrospect – my need, to stretch my ‘being’.

But here’s the truth: trembling in hindsight is not the same as folly at the time. What we see later is always coloured by what we know now. Back then, I lived as I always have — by leaps. Leaps into the unknown, trusting that my Guardian Angel working behind the scenes of life would catch me.

Others trained, charted, prepared. I leapt. And somehow, I survived. Not because I was wise, not because I was skilled, but because something — call it fate, protection, or really that Angel — carried me through.

Now, when I hear of sailors lost near shore, my heart aches. It reminds me that the sea has no favourites, and that my survival was never guaranteed. It humbles me. It makes me bow my head, not boast.

But it also tells me something else: my life has always been this way. Not straight, not cautious, but here, there and anywhere. Risk and recovery, fall and renewal. And even the trembling I feel now is part of the me that survived — the deepening that comes after the leap.

Leave a Comment » | astrology, asylum seekers, consciousness, flotillas of hope, hope caravan, Political Astrology, symbolism, Uncategorized | Tagged: , , , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

Star Gazing: Trump’s Hot Zones (Oct 2025 – Apr 2026)

September 30, 2025

In continuing my Star Gazing reflections, I turn again to the sky — not for prediction, but for pattern.

As I’ve written before, Star Gazing lives in the space between astronomy and astrology. I look up at the stars, at the old light from Alpha Centauri or a pulse of sunlight just eight minutes old, and I wonder: Why am I here? Then I turn to a Sky Map (what some call a horoscope), and I read those same stars differently — as a language, a mirror, a way of speaking to the deeper parts of ourselves.

Astrology, for me, is not about fortune-telling. It is synchronicity written in sky script. When a song, a thought, and a phone call arrive together, I don’t see cause and effect — I see resonance. The stars work in the same way: not as science, but as symbol, as story, as soul language.

With that in mind, I have been watching Donald Trump’s chart across the coming months. What I see is not a medical verdict or a prediction of fate, but symbolic weather — moments when narratives about clarity, stability, and leadership are most likely to ignite.

October and November open the cycle with volatility. His chart suggests irritability and erratic flare-ups, the kind of outbursts that quickly snowball into headlines.

December and January deepen the mood into confusion and combat. Slips repeat, contradictions mount, and his rhetoric turns sharper, more confrontational.

February strains the picture further: alliances fray, emotions spill, and communication falters. Then comes

March, the real pivot. Two eclipses arrive within weeks of each other, joined by a Mercury retrograde. Together they create fertile ground for reversals, gaffes, and renewed doubts about leadership.

Finally, April carries the heavy hand of Saturn pressing on his natal Mercury, marking the shift from fleeting drama into sustained scrutiny — the entrenchment of a longer story about “mental fitness” and clarity.

I do not take this as prediction, but as resonance. Just as a chance meeting or a well-timed song can signal a deeper current, the sky mirrors questions already stirring in the collective — in this case, America’s wrestle with age, clarity, and authority. That, to me, is what Star Gazing is about: not fortune-telling, but listening for meaning in the sky’s unfolding language.

Main Points Recap

  • Oct–Nov 2025: Volatility, outbursts, erratic clips.
  • Dec 2025 – Jan 2026: Confusion and combat, repeated slips, sharper rhetoric.
  • Feb 2026: Strain in alliances, emotional exposure, muddled speech.
  • Mar 2026: Turning point — eclipses + Mercury retrograde trigger reversals and leadership doubts.
  • Apr 2026: Scrutiny hardens — Saturn on Mercury brings sustained “mental fitness” questions.

Closing Invitation

Star Gazing, for me, is a way of listening. These sky stories are not only about political figures, but also about us. I invite you, as you read, to pause and ask: What patterns are unfolding in my own life right now? Where do volatility, confusion, turning points, or scrutiny appear in my story? The stars speak to all of us — not as commands, but as mirrors.

Leave a Comment » | astrology, Political Astrology, politics, symbolism, synchronicity, Trump | Tagged: , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

America After the Threshold: Resistance, Power, and the Divided Republic

June 21, 2025

I play around with Astrology not because I believe that Stars and Planets direct or control events in personal lives or global political events. I think there are invisible concurrent events in the collective unconscious of humanity. So, rather than causation I think there may be a correlation between invisible unconscious movements and the celestial. So, how do we ‘see’ these invisible vibrations? Through symbolism. Just like our dreams may be symbolic of events I think the archetypal symbolism as shown through various systems that assist the invisible to become visible may also be symbolic of events.

So, this is just my reading of symbols that may help me make some sense of the incredible events happening now.

=========================================================

We are now living in a new chapter of American history. We are also living in a new chapter in Global history.

With Donald Trump inaugurated for a second term in January 2025, the United States has entered uncharted and deeply polarized territory. The promises made on the campaign trail are no longer rhetoric—they are rapidly becoming reality.

Mass deportations have begun, with ICE and other federal agencies empowered to conduct wide-scale raids that tear families apart. Sanctuary cities face threats of defunding or legal dismantling. Journalists and political opponents are under open scrutiny. The line between democratic governance and authoritarian rule is blurring in real time.

Trump’s team has already invoked or signaled the potential use of the Insurrection Act to quell dissent, and floated the Alien Enemies Act as a tool to target immigrants. These aren’t theoretical threats—they are moves drawn from a growing authoritarian playbook that challenge foundational American principles. I hear the hum of fascism. Was it the same hum heard just as Nazis took over Germany?

What happens now, as resistance begins to emerge more openly? In blue cities and states, governors and mayors are testing the limits of federal defiance. Communities are organizing, shielding vulnerable members from raids, launching legal battles, and reviving underground networks of care and dissent. But will such resistance provoke a federal crackdown? Will the desire to restore “order” become the pretext for escalated force?

Beneath the policy headlines, a deeper fracture is becoming undeniable. Two Americas are crystallizing—not just politically, but almost civilizationally. On one side, a multiracial, urban, forward-looking nation trying to hold on to democracy. On the other, a reactionary movement rooted in grievance, nostalgia, and power consolidation. The social, legal, and cultural divide is widening into something more dangerous—something that history warns us about.

The last time America reached this level of internal rupture, it exploded into civil war. That memory, often romanticized or dismissed, is beginning to feel less like history and more like a warning flare.

Astrology, often dismissed by the rational mind, provides a fascinating lens for examining recurring historical cycles. The planetary alignments of 2025 bear striking echoes of those in 1859–1861, just before the Civil War began. Let’s explore how the skies may be mirroring our collective crisis.

Astrological Forecast: Echoes of the Past, Portents for the Present (Mid–Late 2025)

Astrologically, 2025 is charged with revolutionary tension. We are living under skies that call for transformation—and test the foundations of nations.

Pluto in Aquarius (2023–2043): Revolution of Power and Structure

Pluto’s move into Aquarius signals the collapse and reconstruction of collective systems. In 2025, its early degrees are already pressuring global power structures, exposing the authoritarian use of technology and the manipulation of mass movements.

The last time Pluto was here was during the American and French Revolutions. The questions return: What is freedom? Who holds power over the collective?

Uranus in Taurus square Pluto in Aquarius (Exact October 2025)

This rare clash between Uranus and Pluto is the year’s seismic pulse. Uranus disrupts; Pluto transforms. When they square off, systems collapse and something entirely new begins to rise.

Expect:

  • Economic unrest (currency shocks, digital bank failures)
  • Technological rebellions (AI regulation backlash, digital sabotage)
  • Civil disobedience on a mass scale, potentially met with federal force.

This square recalls the Uranus–Pluto conjunction of the 1960s—a time of protest, civil rights, and violent backlash.

Neptune at 29° Pisces: The Fog Before the Storm

Neptune now lingers at the final degree of Pisces—the anaretic degree, also known as the “degree of fate.” This amplifies illusion, spiritual yearning, and mass deception.

We may see:

  • Propaganda disguised as truth
  • Escalation of conspiracy cults
  • Emotional and spiritual burnout

But also a search for meaning, for soul, for deeper truth.

Saturn in Pisces: Holding the Line

Saturn seeks structure in Pisces’ oceanic waters. It teaches quiet endurance, inner anchoring, and the need to build unseen resilience. Its presence here stabilizes those working in dreams, healing, and faith. But it also punishes denial and escapism.

The Shadow of the U.S. Pluto Return

Although exact in 2022, the aftershocks of America’s Pluto return are reverberating through 2025. The old system is dying—but what is being born remains uncertain.

The Pluto return marks the end of a cycle begun in 1776. The soul of the republic is on the line. The soul of United States of America is on the line. Is there a crack along that line?

Forecast by Season: June to December 2025

▶ June–August

  • Mass protests and resistance movements gain momentum.
  • Economic strain begins to show: housing pressure, job insecurity, localized shortages.
  • Escalation of federal actions draws international scrutiny.

▶ September–October

  • Uranus square Pluto hits exact. Expect sudden, disruptive events: blackouts, market drops, tech collapses, or policy overreach.
  • Civil disobedience may meet aggressive federal pushback.
  • Courts, especially the Supreme Court, become major flashpoints.

▶ November–December

  • Neptune’s final passage through Pisces intensifies the search for clarity. Expect scandals, revelations, spiritual awakenings, and psychological fatigue.
  • Possibility of a cultural or symbolic turning point.
  • Saturn begins to separate from Neptune, helping us rebuild from the emotional wreckage.

Conclusion: What Now?

We are living through a slow earthquake. The world as we knew it is not returning. But destruction and renewal are twins. The astrology of this era asks each of us to become participants, not spectators, in the unfolding of history.

If history is written in cycles, then perhaps prophecy is found in pattern. And if the stars are a mirror, they are reflecting our choices back to us.

The question isn’t whether the storm is coming.

It’s who we choose to become within it.

1 Comment | astrology, consciousness, Political Astrology, symbolism, Uncategorized | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

Out of Step, In Tune

June 18, 2025

I’ve never moved easily with the crowd. Even as a child, I sensed things others didn’t notice. I saw patterns. I felt tension where others felt calm. That difference set the course for much of my life. I later came to understand it as neurodivergence.

This way of thinking made me restless in the face of injustice. When politicians tried to divide people, I helped create Cultural Stomp. When Australia locked up refugees on remote islands, I helped send boats toward Nauru. These actions didn’t come from strategy. They came from something more basic: I couldn’t stay silent.

It also shaped how I look after my health. At 73, I walk every day, track my progress, and keep my habits sharp. My VO₂ Max sits around 41.5—on par with men much younger. I didn’t plan to achieve that. I just kept going, step by step.

Writing followed the same pattern. I never set out to write for an audience. I wrote to make sense of what I saw and felt. My work comes from moments that stood out—dreams, memories, odd encounters, sharp turns in the road. Most of it came quietly, over many years.

I’ve lived most of my life outside the usual path. I rarely feel part of things. But that distance gave me something else: the space to see clearly, and the will to act when it mattered.

The posts here on this blog comes from that place. No polish. No performance. Just what felt real, when it mattered most.

Leave a Comment » | Uncategorized | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

No One Would Believe It — Not Even Me

June 18, 2025


By Stavros, age 73

I stopped smoking in 2007. I had been a pack-a-day smoker since my youth. I never played sports. I didn’t train. I had no interest in fitness.

In 2021, I weighed 88 kilograms. That’s when I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes. My doctor offered me medication or the option to change my diet and exercise. I chose the second option. It didn’t feel like a brave choice. It just seemed like common sense.

I had no idea how unusual that was.

I started walking every day. I changed what I ate. I didn’t go to the gym. I didn’t follow any program. I just kept walking.

Over time, I added structure. Brisk walks. Hills. Intervals. I watched my blood sugar. I stayed consistent. I lost weight.

Three and a half years later, I weigh 70 kilograms. My diabetes is in remission. I’ve never taken medication.

Then something happened I didn’t expect.

Based on heart rate data and walking performance, my estimated VO₂ max is over 41. That puts me in the top 5% of fitness for men over 70. I’m 73. I never trained as an athlete. I smoked for decades. I started late.

But the numbers don’t lie. My heart rate is low. My walk times are strong. My recovery is fast. My doctor is amazed.

Most people wouldn’t believe it. But it happened. And it happened without drama. No gyms. No apps. No slogans.

Just me, walking. Every day.

I never set out to become fit. I only wanted to avoid medication. What happened instead was quiet, slow, and real.

You don’t need to be young to begin. You don’t need to be special to keep going.

You just need to start. And keep starting.

Leave a Comment » | Uncategorized | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

Why Don’t People Choose to Heal?

May 16, 2025

At 73, I’ve kept Type 2 diabetes in remission for over three years—through walking, simple food, and resistance exercises at home.

Sometimes I wonder why more people don’t walk the way I do. Not just physically — but deliberately, with purpose, with rhythm. Not for medals, not for watches or metrics, but to come home to themselves. To turn toward health, rather than away from it. To heal.

You’d think the instinct to live would be enough. You’d think the desire to feel good, move well, and age gracefully would drive people to act. But often, it doesn’t.

I think I know part of the reason why.

We live in a time where wellness has been commercialised — sold back to us by fitness influencers, gym chains, and self-styled “health gurus.”

There’s always a hack, a supplement, a challenge, a subscription. And behind it all, almost always, is the same tired motive: money.

The industry promises shortcuts, biohacks, six-packs, detoxes. But very little of it teaches people how to truly listen to their own body. Very little of it says: Walk the same path every day, in silence, and see what grows.

I didn’t pay for a program.

I didn’t join a gym.

I didn’t buy expensive equipment.

I walked. I changed how I ate — simplified my meals, removed the refined sugar and processed foods, honoured the basics.

And I began doing resistance exercises at home using my own bodyweight: push-ups, squats, step-ups, planks, curls with light dumbbells.

No machines. No mirrors. Just daily practice, spread across the hours of an ordinary day.

Over time, my blood glucose dropped, my weight settled, and my resting heart rate sank—to the level of an endurance athlete’s.

Not because I’m extraordinary. But because I showed up for my own life, one quiet effort at a time.

What astounds me is that this happened to me.

That at 73, after a lifetime of ordinary habits and imperfections — after years of smoking, struggle, and neglect — my body responded with such grace. That it could still heal. Still strengthen. Still find its rhythm.

I never expected this.

Discipline isn’t punishment.

Routine isn’t boring. And consistency isn’t obsession. They’re the quiet architecture of a life well lived.

I wish I could bottle what I’ve found and pass it around like water. But the truth is, you have to taste it yourself.

You have to take the first step — not for likes, not for a fitness tracker, not for anyone else — but because something in you remembers: you are still alive.

And you are still free to begin.

A note from the heart:
I share this not to suggest that my path is a cure-all. I know that remission isn’t possible for everyone, even with great effort. Our bodies are different. Our lives are different. What worked for me may not work for someone else — or not in the same way, or not at the same time. I honour those who are doing their best, every day, under circumstances we can’t always see. This is just my story — and I share it in case it offers hope, not judgment.

Postscript

What still astounds me is how far the body can come back when you listen to it.

At 73, my VO₂ max is estimated at 46–50, and my resting heart rate stays between 48–52 bpm — on par with fit men in their 30s to early 40s.

No gym. No guru. No plan.

Just walking.
Simple food.
Daily resistance.

That’s what worked.

📷 For images from my daily walks—the place where this journey unfolded:
https://dodona777.com/photos-from-a-river-bank-a-flood-plain/

3 Comments | Uncategorized | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

The Shirt That Waited

May 10, 2025

A quiet moment in a thrift shop became a luminous sign—folded in cotton, stitched with meaning. A forgotten shirt reminded me that even in doubt, the path whispers back: keep going.

Today, a whisper found its way to me in cotton.

I took a turn I hadn’t planned. Missed another I thought I meant to take. My car drifted like a leaf on invisible currents, nudging me gently toward a thrift shop I’d never noticed before. I wasn’t looking for anything. Just drifting.

Inside, beneath the soft hum of fluorescent light and the faint scent of other people’s lives, I browsed without seeing—until I did.

A shirt.

Ordinary, almost.

Except for the words:

Found in a $10 bin. Delivered like a prophecy.

Never underestimate an old man who graduated from the Univeristy of Sydney.

I stood still.

The sentence blinked softly, like an old friend in disguise.

I’m an old man.

I’m a Sydney Uni graduate.

And lately… I’ve been adrift. Writing, yes—but shadowed by that quiet ache of doubt, that question: Who do you think you are?

The shirt didn’t answer. It just waited. As if it had been waiting a long time.

I’ve never seen such a message on any piece of clothing. Not in a shop. Not in a dream. Not in a life filled with signs and silences.

And where did I find it? Among a rack of forgotten clothes, a sale bin really—three garments for ten dollars. Almost thrown away, as if its worth were negligible. But value has its own strange gravity.

So I listened.

I bought the shirt, not to wear, but to honour the moment. Folded it like a relic. A thread in the quiet tapestry that tells me: Keep going. Your words matter. You are not to be underestimated—even by yourself.

Sometimes the universe speaks in lightning.

Sometimes, in shirts.

And no, this wasn’t random.

Not this precise. Not this poetic. Not on a day when I needed it most. There is a language beneath the visible, and sometimes it breaks the surface. This message wasn’t waiting in the shop. It was waiting for me. A quiet benediction disguised as cloth, gently reminding me that my path still holds light—and voice—and that even the doubting steps are part of the dance.

I didn’t expect to write this. I just followed a feeling, like I did that day in the shop. If it resonated with you, I’m glad. Sometimes the smallest signs are the ones we carry the longest.

2 Comments | Uncategorized | Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

« Previous Entries