Hunger is a Compass

The alarm ignites like a traffic light in your chest,
red to gold to go, as outside, avenues stretch like veins, impatient.

You rise because the city is already awake inside you,
because a taxi idles somewhere below your window,
engine purring like a secret you haven’t told yet.

Steam from a corner café climbs into morning air,
a soft ghost spelling your name,
come build the day before it forgets you exist.

Create something to look forward to…

Stitch it between crosswalks and scaffolding,
hang it like a banner between buildings of maybe.

Your future waits in the elevator, fingers itching to press the highest button,

top floor, where glass walls drink the skyline whole.
Each idea you carry clicks upward with a hum,
like steel cables lifting more than weight,
lifting the version of you that dared to begin.

Create an exciting person to look forward to…

Catch your reflection in a taxi window at a red light
and see lightning wearing your face.
Be the stranger striding fast down crowded streets,
coat snapping like a flag of intention.
In the park, let your thoughts race pigeons startled

into silver-winged applause, become movement, become noise,
become a story the city repeats at night.

Create something or someone to chase…

Not the flicker of neon, but the pulse behind it,
the water-bucket drummer in a subway tunnel echoing urgency.
Run past storefront glare and shadowed alleys,
through gusts that smell like rain and ambition,
until your breath fogs the glass of everything ahead.
The skyline itself leans forward, daring you,
and when morning claws at your blinds again,
you will rise, already mid-stride,
because the whole city is running with you.

Remember…

Hunger is a compass—trust the pull—
and when morning comes scraping at your window again,
you will rise, not because you must,
but because today’s direction already has your name.