I love how this speaks on forgiveness without pretending we stop being human. Sometimes healing is not having no bitterness at all. Sometimes healing is admitting there is still a small smudge there, but choosing not to let it become the whole story.
That is magic to me.
To speak peace into something that once hurt. To let the river carry what we no longer need to drag behind us. To trust that the words will reach whoever they are meant to reach.
Some things do not need to be over-explained. They just need to be felt.
I kept returning to the word magic. Not because it promises transformation, but because it recognizes something we know instinctively: words can mend or ruin, heal or hurt. A sentence spoken in love can alter the course of a life; another, uttered carelessly, can remain lodged in memory for decades.
But what moved me most is that the poem turns this power inward.
βIβll say these words:
I know, I always knew
I figured it out
And itβs okay.β
How difficult those last four words can be.
Not because the wound was small.
Not because the mistake vanished.
But because there comes a moment when carrying the story hurts more than letting it become a story.
I loved the ballast metaphor. We speak so often of what life does to us, forgetting the weights we polish, protect, and call identity. Many people say itβs okay without believing it. The magic is not in the words alone. It arrives when something within finally loosens its gripβwhen forgiveness ceases to be an argument and becomes a way of being.
And perhaps that is why your ending feels so right:
βTo explain magic is to ruin
Part of what makes it work.β
Some truths are not explained into existence. They are spoken softly, sometimes shakily, until one day they are simply true.
Thank you Dipti. I can't help but feel that the traditions of speaking things, situations into existence has some form of validity to it, at minimum insofar as each of our mental state/internal state is the first in bringing change: it's small, imperceptible. But it's inescapably intrinsic to the process of evolution, the same as it is with the mother repeating a mental checklist walking through a parking lot, or an athlete talking themselves into calming down on the court, or amping themselves up.
I think you are touching upon something ancient here, Mike.
Words do not always create reality in the crude sense we often imagine. But they shape the one place from which all realities are first encountered: consciousness itself.
A mother whispering stay alert, an athlete repeating I can, a grieving soul saying I will survive; these are not mere sounds hurled at an indifferent universe. They are small acts of alignment. The inner world leaning, ever so slightly, toward a different possibility.
And perhaps that is how all transformation begins: not with mountains moving, but with perception loosening its grip on what it thought was fixed.
Thereβs something quietly powerful in this poem, the way it treats words as a kind of fragile magic we carry inside us. It feels like someone trying to speak forgiveness into existence, even as they admit how hard that actually is. I love how the imagery shifts between shadows, thoughts, and the weight of old mistakes β it captures so well how our minds replay things we wish we could undo. What struck me most is the honesty about bitterness: not denying it, not pretending to be above it, just acknowledging it as part of being human. The poem moves gently toward release, not in a dramatic way, but in that slow, private way real forgiveness often happens. And the ending is beautiful β the idea that some words only work when spoken softly, without explanation, like a small spell meant for the right person to hear.
Yes, it works.
Thank you Elizabeth
Blown away again ...
This hit me and I'm going to write it in my journal if that's ok:
Iβm not sure I have the fortitude
To measure my worth
Against a standard
Where Iβm not at least a little bitter
Thank you Lisa. The idea is free, snd I'd be honored if it stayed with you for a time
For @pancakesushi
Temet nosce.
Know thyself, they said.
Then along came PancakeSushi,
proving the soul occasionally wears
the most improbable name in the room.
A breakfast.
A dinner.
A poet.
Somehow all three.
Thank you for reminding us
that wisdom arrives in many disguises,
and coolness rarely bothers
to explain itself.
Thank you Quinlin!
Iβm speechlessβ¦ Bravo! ππ»β¨Thank you for sharing your gift with us! How lucky we are.
Thank you Eleora
Wow Mike just wow
Thank you Dorie
I love how this speaks on forgiveness without pretending we stop being human. Sometimes healing is not having no bitterness at all. Sometimes healing is admitting there is still a small smudge there, but choosing not to let it become the whole story.
That is magic to me.
To speak peace into something that once hurt. To let the river carry what we no longer need to drag behind us. To trust that the words will reach whoever they are meant to reach.
Some things do not need to be over-explained. They just need to be felt.
This was felt deeply.
Thank you Aaron!
Well-done.
ππππππππππππ
Thank you Aria
β€β€
Thank you!
https://annaiah77.substack.com/p/whispers-in-the-afterglow?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=6gnqaf
Mike,
I kept returning to the word magic. Not because it promises transformation, but because it recognizes something we know instinctively: words can mend or ruin, heal or hurt. A sentence spoken in love can alter the course of a life; another, uttered carelessly, can remain lodged in memory for decades.
But what moved me most is that the poem turns this power inward.
βIβll say these words:
I know, I always knew
I figured it out
And itβs okay.β
How difficult those last four words can be.
Not because the wound was small.
Not because the mistake vanished.
But because there comes a moment when carrying the story hurts more than letting it become a story.
I loved the ballast metaphor. We speak so often of what life does to us, forgetting the weights we polish, protect, and call identity. Many people say itβs okay without believing it. The magic is not in the words alone. It arrives when something within finally loosens its gripβwhen forgiveness ceases to be an argument and becomes a way of being.
And perhaps that is why your ending feels so right:
βTo explain magic is to ruin
Part of what makes it work.β
Some truths are not explained into existence. They are spoken softly, sometimes shakily, until one day they are simply true.
Thank you Dipti. I can't help but feel that the traditions of speaking things, situations into existence has some form of validity to it, at minimum insofar as each of our mental state/internal state is the first in bringing change: it's small, imperceptible. But it's inescapably intrinsic to the process of evolution, the same as it is with the mother repeating a mental checklist walking through a parking lot, or an athlete talking themselves into calming down on the court, or amping themselves up.
I think you are touching upon something ancient here, Mike.
Words do not always create reality in the crude sense we often imagine. But they shape the one place from which all realities are first encountered: consciousness itself.
A mother whispering stay alert, an athlete repeating I can, a grieving soul saying I will survive; these are not mere sounds hurled at an indifferent universe. They are small acts of alignment. The inner world leaning, ever so slightly, toward a different possibility.
And perhaps that is how all transformation begins: not with mountains moving, but with perception loosening its grip on what it thought was fixed.
Maybe that is why prayers survive,
why mantras outlive empires,
why a single sentence spoken with conviction
can become a bridge across despair.
Not because words bend reality.
But because, sometimes,
they remind us of the one who is listening.
And that listener has always been larger
than fear.
Love this poem
Thank you Nicholas
Iβm running out of energy for hints I donβt know for me or another
For whoever needs to hear ππ
πSheesh
Great writing βοΈ as always ππ½
Thank you V S
Wow, π€
Thank you Willow
I will now, forever think of this poem when I think of magic.
Thank you Christopher!
Thereβs something quietly powerful in this poem, the way it treats words as a kind of fragile magic we carry inside us. It feels like someone trying to speak forgiveness into existence, even as they admit how hard that actually is. I love how the imagery shifts between shadows, thoughts, and the weight of old mistakes β it captures so well how our minds replay things we wish we could undo. What struck me most is the honesty about bitterness: not denying it, not pretending to be above it, just acknowledging it as part of being human. The poem moves gently toward release, not in a dramatic way, but in that slow, private way real forgiveness often happens. And the ending is beautiful β the idea that some words only work when spoken softly, without explanation, like a small spell meant for the right person to hear.
Thank you APC, I always appreciate your thoughts