living in reverse

i don’t picture my life moving forward.

i see it ending first.

the moment

everything i carried

finally makes sense

to someone else.

hands that look like mine

holding my name

like it weighs something.

worth.

the room is quiet now.

no applause left to impress.

no witnesses left to convince.

just evidence.

then the film rewinds.

chairs slide back

under tables.

rooms that once clapped

empty themselves.

i walk backward through years

where vision outpaced income

and belief had to cover the gap.

i watch myself choose the long road

before it looked noble.

watch myself disappoint people

who only loved me

when i was smaller.

the rewind slows.

nights pass

where nothing changes externally,

but something sets internally—

structure.

posture.

spine.

change isn’t loud.

it never was.

it’s a slow burn.

the residue of visions

passed down

by minds who never met

but spoke the same language

across centuries.

they saw further than their era

and paid for it

in isolation.

that’s the lineage i recognize.

not trendsetters.

torch carriers.

the tape keeps spinning back.

i see the moment

i almost stopped—

not from doubt,

but fatigue.

urgency yelling.

patience staying silent.

i chose the silence.

i pass the years

everyone skips

because they don’t look like progress—

those years

built the spine.

rewind further.

before the work.

before the discipline.

before the language

to name any of this.

the first frame.

a hospital room

washed in white.

fluorescent lights humming

like they’ve seen this before.

the smell of antiseptic.

plastic curtains breathing.

machines learning my rhythm

before i do.

my mother’s face opens

into a smile she didn’t rehearse—

exhausted,

relieved,

already bracing for something unnamed.

my grandfather stands back,

hands trembling,

eyes wet,

trying not to make a sound

that would mark the moment as permanent.

they hand me back to the doctor.

careful.

reverent.

like passing something

that already belongs

to the future.

he looks down.

a pause.

recognition.

it’s a boy.

trajectory.

the words land

before language exists.

before choice.

before the weight they’ll carry.

air hits my lungs

for the first time.

a sharp inhale.

a protest.

a declaration.

i cry—not from pain,

but from interruption.

time starts

without asking.

nothing is owned.

nothing is owed.

no story yet.

no proof yet.

no permission asked.

just a pulse

that refuses

to be quiet.

the film keeps rewinding—

past the breath,

past the room,

past the body—

until there’s no frame left.

no sound.

no image.

no witness.

i’m no longer here on this earth—

until my spirit disperses 

into everything i left unfinished,

and the universe lights up 

not with who i was,

but with the work.

— Mr. Mak