Just Do It

If you want the laurels,

the garlands,

the shining echo of applause,

you have already stepped away

from the quiet furnace

where real work glows.

For the hours you spend unseen

will stay unseen.

The world loves a finished shape,

but not the hands that carved it.

It praises the statue,

never the bleeding fingers.

You must accept this:

your labor will vanish

into the background of your own life.

It will be the scaffolding

everyone overlooks

when they admire the building.

And still,

the work is calling.

Not because it will make you admired,

but because it is yours.

Because something in you knows

what must be made real,

what must be lifted,

what must be carried

even when no one else

will ever know the weight.

They will try to pull you away:

You work too much.

They will say it with worry,

or envy,

or fear,

or the quiet resentment

of those who never learned

to love a task enough

to let it change them.

Do the work anyway.

Do it because it shapes you,

burnishes you,

steadies you.

Do it because you cannot not do it.

Do it without witness,

without applause,

without credit.

Do it for you.