The things we fail to see are numerous and free.
We walk daily beneath skies worth more than all our fortunes,
yet glance up only when they threaten rain.
The sea sings old songs to every shore—
but who stops to listen when there’s no ticket booth,
no velvet rope, no exclusive access granted?The soft hush of dusk, the rhythm of breath,
the moss between ancient stones—
all free, all overlooked.
Not because we’re cruel.
Not because we’re blind.
But because our minds
are carved to chase the costly,
to turn from what is freely given.Beauty without a price feels suspicious.
Wonder without effort, unearned.
We worship scarcity,
even as abundance begs us to notice.This is the tragedy of waking eyes:
to be knee-deep in miracles
and still hunger for more,
simply because no invoice arrives.But yesterday, I knelt in the dirt
and watched an ant drag a crumb twice its size,
relentless, purposeful—
a tiny epic ignored by the world.
And for a moment, I rebelled.
I loved what asked nothing of me.Maybe that’s the quietest revolution—
to see the unpaid wonders,
to adore what doesn’t glitter,
to refuse the lie
that only the rare is worth holding.
We’re conditioned to chase the next big thing, the next badge of status, the next signal of “worth.” But what if the truest wealth lies in our capacity to see? To cherish the ordinary? This is my quiet rebellion. Yours too, maybe.
👇 What’s one unpaid wonder you noticed today?
