6. The Threshold

Aurora: The Laceration | Archive No.8:

May 26, 2025

Author’s Note:
Not all words are recent. This piece is part of Aurora: The Laceration, the third in a three-part collection titled The Monologue (2005–2015).
These works carry a voice shaped where light meets scar—a final reckoning with the ache of homecoming, when the world flickers awake in the moment we are seen.
Aurora: The Laceration | Archive No.8: The Threshold
Originally written in Greek, sometime between 2014-2015

“Lost in a blistered cold
Secrets kept in sand and stone
In a language I no longer know
Cast away and left alone
Show me the way again”

“I saw the world from my window seat
Felt the calm, I felt the peace
That we miss out on down below
With the walls we build, the lines we draw

The city lights from up that high
Have nothing else to do but shine
Like the moon and likе the sun
They come out for еveryone

Our differences didn't matter here no more
Sometimes I wish the world could see
The view from the window seat”

Did life return
to teach me not to repeat
what already undid me—
or to show me what truth looks like,
even when it isn’t a mistake at all?

But I’m impatient.
I sabotage the lesson,
rush past the unveiling.
In my quiet rebellion,
I corner life—
pressing it to reveal its secret
before it’s ready to speak.

To live—
truly live—
through the prism of feeling.
That is the higher grace.
And like all things elevated,
it arrives
brushed with a kind of luminous sorrow—
an ache wrapped in hope.

And you will feel alone.
Utterly.
You’ll ache to share that moment,
to tether your pulse to another's.
More than anything,
you’ll plead
for the sheer possibility
that someone else
might be feeling it too.

And if they are?

The question becomes—
can your moment meet theirs?
Can your timelines
align like breath and echo?

When you touch another,
leave behind a trace—
a tender, heart-shaped imprint.
Even if they go.
Even if you do.
Leave signs
that point toward love.
And maybe—just maybe—
you’ll follow those signs
back to your own.

What is this thing
we call a little love?
Can love ever arrive
in fractions?
Can it be halved,
reduced,
survivable?
Can any touch
ever come
without returning?
And if it does—
what if a little
could have become
everything?
And what,
after all,
everything really feels like?

You can’t wait for love.
It arrives uninvited—
never asking permission.
It finds you
when the heart is ajar
and the mind unguarded.
That moment—
you cannot plan for it.

You either let love
root itself in your chest,
or you chase it off
in a rush to protect your pace—
and continue walking
toward some imagined right time.
It’s always a choice.

We are always searching
for a way to decide.
I’ve learned only one.
When I stand at the threshold,
I try to listen
to the instinct that stirs.
That quiet, sovereign pulse—
to turn back,
or to move on.
Is there something
still waiting to be seen?
Something
still longing to be lived?

The heart always knows
what it truly needs.
And what it needs most
is often the thing
that stirs quietly inside—
just before the mind
has time to doubt it.

You either close the door
and walk away—
free,
without remorse—
or you return
and live the moment
that still belongs to you.

What belongs to you
does not release its grip
just because you turned away.
It lingers,
quiet and unfinished.
It waits for the moment
you are ready to see.
And then,
it finds you.

It will trace your imprints.
It will return—
like a ghost
from some half-closed door of the past.
And you’ll wonder
why you’re bound
to relive the same thread of your life.
Even if you don’t know why—
life does.
And it always,
always returns back
to show you.

Do you follow it—
even when it calls your name
softly,
without reason,
without a map?
Do you follow—
because something ancient in you
already knows
you’re meant to answer
in that one
unguarded,
magical moment?
When life
whispers your name
at the edge
of everything familiar—
will you follow?