BEING SELECTED

Selection is natural.
It’s rhythm.
It’s order.
But it’s never perfect.

People on the train.
Faces I don’t know
but somehow recognize.
Some lost in their own thoughts.
Some wide awake,
seeing everything.

Do I sit beside them?
Do I keep my distance,
watching from across the aisle?
Do I brush past
without looking back—
or do I pause,
sensing something familiar
I can’t explain?

Do I choose them,
or were we chosen long before?

Because sometimes,
it isn’t about deciding at all.
It’s about surrender.

You open.
You soften.
You let yourself be seen.
And then—
someone sits next to you.
Not just beside you,
but within you.

And suddenly,
they live there—
in your heart,
in your bones,
in your breath.

It feels ancient,
like a memory your body carried
long before your mind was born.
Your soul remembers.
And theirs does, too.

Every soul they’ve touched
has touched you.
Every whisper,
every longing,
every love
echoes down the line
until it lands
right here.

Then comes the fire.
The kind that burns without smoke,
that purifies,
refines,
remakes.

And the watchers—
oh, the watchers—
they feel it, too.
They wonder:

Why them? Why now? Why not me?
Why do they get to burn
while I stay cold?

But beneath the envy
is the ache:

When will I burn?
When will the universe split me open
and pour the light through?

And when it comes—
it’s chaos.
It’s overwhelming.
It’s too much.
It’s not enough.
It’s everything.
It’s nothing.
It’s me.

Because there is no perfect selection.

No chosen few.
No secret gate.

We are all chosen.

We are all fire
trying to remember
that we came from flame.

Different shapes.
Different songs.
Different scars.

Same heat.
Same hunger.
Same longing

to be known,
to be seen,
to be loved.

And still—

even when we forget,
even when we turn away,
even when we doubt ourselves most—

Something ancient whispers:

I have always been selected.