Still Laying There

There was a time I used to lay in the driveway and just… stay there. No music. No noise. Just concrete on my back and the stars above me.

It didn’t matter if it was cold or hot. It didn’t matter what kind of day I had. Something about being face-to-face with the night sky made everything quiet again. And I don’t mean silence in the room—I mean silence in me.

No performance.

No pressure.

No pretending.

Just peace.

I remember those nights vividly. I can still feel the weight of my chest rising and falling against that slab of Texas driveway like it was the only thing holding me together. That stillness? It didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like everything. Like for a brief moment, the world didn’t need me to explain myself. I wasn’t a burden. I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t a list of symptoms, appointments, or pain levels.

I was just a guy looking up at the stars, and they were looking back

That’s What I Miss Most

I don’t miss running.

I don’t miss walking.

What I miss… is laying.

I miss letting the world hold me without needing to carry anything. No control. No goals. Just… being. Just letting the night remind me that my soul was something wild and connected—more than this body, more than this diagnosis.

Now, even on quiet nights, I can’t feel the earth beneath me the way I used to. And I wonder—how many people have never even felt it once?

How many people go their whole lives never feeling that kind of stillness?

How many traded it in for screens and notifications and numbed-out scrolling under fluorescent lights?

I fear for them.

Not in a condescending way.

But because I know what they’re missing.

Marveling at Something That Doesn’t Want Your Attention

There is something sacred about looking at something that doesn’t look back to be liked. The stars don’t care about your engagement rate. They don’t need a like or a comment or your curated reaction. They just are.

And for a while, I was too.

Now it feels like even silence has to be monetized. Peace has to be branded. Stillness has to be productive. But I remember a version of myself that didn’t need any of that. He just needed the night sky and the honesty of it.

I remember laying there knowing—really knowing—that I belonged here. That even with all the chaos and confusion and eventual pain… this was still my place.