July 14, 2025 • 29 mins
What happens when the key to everything you've been searching for has been with you all along? Our new series introduces a character whose life shifts in extraordinary ways not through dramatic external changes, but through a newfound ability to simply notice what's already there.
When a mysterious package arrives containing nothing but a key, our protagonist begins experiencing subtle shifts in his perception. A coffee shop barista's casual observation—"People who order without looking at the menu know who they are"—becomes the touchstone for a journey into authenticity and presence. As small coincidences accumulate, he's forced to confront the possibility that something meaningful is occurring, something he can no longer dismiss as random chance.
The beauty of this story lies in its honesty about transformation. There are no lightning bolts or dramatic revelations—just the quiet recognition that we often rush past the very moments that matter most. The character's realization, "I don't know what I'm becoming, but I think it's someone I've missed," speaks to anyone who's ever felt disconnected from their authentic self while moving through the world.
Through powerful reflection prompts, we invite you to examine your own relationship with presence: What moments are you skipping past each day? Who were you before you started performing? When did you start believing that silence meant failure? These questions aren't just philosophical—they're practical invitations to rediscover what's been waiting for you all along.
Join us for this soul-stirring exploration of what happens when we finally stop long enough to be honest with ourselves. The key to everything might already be in your possession—are you ready to see what it's been trying to show you? Connect with me through the podcast description, email anthony@gentsjourney.com, or on Instagram @mygentsjourney to continue the conversation about how these principles can transform your own journey.
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast.
My name is Anthony, your host,and today we are starting a
brand new series.
This series is called the Keyto Everything.
I think you guys are reallygoing to enjoy this.
(00:21):
So let's go ahead, as we alwaysdo, and let's go ahead and get
in the cold opening.
He skipped breakfast again, notbecause he was broke though or
for being honest, he was butbecause the silence of eating
alone has started to feelheavier than hunger.
It's the kind of silence thatwraps around you like an old
(00:43):
winter coat, familiar and worn,and just uncomfortable enough to
remind you that you're stillwearing it.
He locked the door with a quietclick.
Third time this week thehallway light had flickered as
he passed beneath it.
A superstitious man might havetaken it as a sign.
He just took it as a Tuesday.
The elevator made its usualnoise half groan, half sigh and
(01:08):
paused at every four, even theones no one had called, like the
building was stalling or justdidn't want him to arrive too
soon.
He didn't blame it.
The city was still waking upwhen he stepped outside Pale
lights, distant cars, the faintscent of burnt toast from diners
across the street.
(01:28):
He inhaled, then exhaled slowlythrough his nose A habit from
some mindfulness podcast he'dlistened to half-asleep three
months ago.
He passed the mirror in theapartment lobby without looking,
not of humility, just not ahabit.
He already knew what he lookedlike Most days, it didn't matter
(01:51):
.
At the corner coffee shop thebarista smiled before he spoke.
She always did.
It wasn't flirty smile, it was,or customer service smile.
It was that rare kind, that onethat someone gives when they've
already decided you're worthbeing kind to, whether you
notice or not.
The usual, she asked.
(02:12):
He nodded.
She turned to pour it.
No hesitation, no questions.
She remembered how he liked it.
He never remembered telling her.
When he thanked her she justtilted her head just slightly
and said I like people who orderwithout looking at the menu
Means, they know who they are.
He started to go back a littlebit and blinked, she said, like
(02:37):
a throwaway line, but it stayedwith him the whole walk home.
Later that day, long after shesaid it, long after the coffee
cooled, he found himself writingit down on the back of an old
envelope Just that one line,nothing else.
The alarm had gone off.
Off that he was sure heremembered hitting snooze once,
(03:03):
maybe twice, but somewherebetween closing his eyes and
opening them again.
Nearly half-hour it slippedaway like a thief through an
open window.
The sun was already burningthrough the blinds, painting the
crackled white walls with toohonest light.
Dust hung in the air like tinytruths, visible only when he
(03:23):
slowed down to notice them,which he never did.
He skipped the shower again,washed his face with cold water
from the chip sink and ran hisfingers through his sleek,
flattened hair, trying to makeit look intentional.
The bathroom mirror washalf-fogged from a water heater
doing its best.
He wiped it with his sleeve,regretting that instantly.
(03:45):
The shirt he chose wasn't theone he wanted, but it was the
one that didn't smell likeyesterday.
The collar wouldn't lie flat.
He buttoned it wrong the firsttime, cursed under his breath
and started again.
His shoes were by the door, oneupright, one on its side, like
it had given up, were by thedoor, one upright, one on its
(04:07):
side, like it had given up.
He grabbed both, stomped themon and reached for his bag half
zipped, always half zipped andslung it over his shoulder.
On his way out he knocked overa stack of unopened mail.
He let it fall.
The hallway light flickeredagain as he locked the door
behind him.
He had just stopped noticingthat weeks ago, but today it
annoyed him.
The elevator, of course, was onanother floor.
(04:29):
He jabbed the down button,waited six seconds, then bolted
for the stairs Three flights andeach one reminded him that he
hadn't been in the gym in a long, long time.
At the bottom he pushed themain door with his shoulder.
He almost collided with thedelivery guy coming up the steps
(04:50):
.
The man wore the brown uniform,the kind that made every season
look too hot.
He was holding a small box,apartment 3B.
The delivery guy asked, glancingdown at his scanner.
He nodded, walking past.
Yeah, that's me, I need you tosign.
He hesitated, looked at hisphone Already five minutes late
(05:13):
and the bus didn't wait.
But he took the stylus,scribbled something that barely
looked like his name.
The box was handed over like ariddle no label, no return label
, no logo, just a namehandwritten in pen you.
He started it for a second toolong.
The delivery guy raised aneyebrow but didn't ask, just
(05:35):
turned and disappeared down thesteps like a ghost fulfilling an
ancient duty.
He turned the box over twice,twice.
No weight to it, but somethingabout it felt solid.
He turned the box over twice,twice.
No weight to it, but somethingabout it felt solid, like it
didn't want to be ignored.
But the bus was coming.
He shoved into his bag withoutopening it and jogged to the
(05:56):
corner.
Of course the bus was early.
He watched his tails likedisappear before he reached the
stop.
The ache in his chest wasn'tabout the job, it wasn't about
the bus, it was about the ache.
That kind of shows up when theuniverse feels like it's already
moving on without you.
He stood there for a while nobackup bus, just the usual
(06:17):
morning traffic and a crackedsidewalk beneath his feet.
He pulled the box back out.
It was just still there,waiting, heavy, without mass,
meaningful, without reason.
He thought about throwing itaway, but something he wouldn't
call it a voice, more like asuggestion whispered, don't?
(06:40):
He tucked it under his arm andstarted walking downtown 15
blocks to work.
He could make it Well, maybe.
At the third crosswalk he pulledout his phone to let his
manager know he'd be late, thenthought better of it.
What would he even say?
What?
That he overslept again?
That he missed the bus becausethe universe handed him a box
(07:03):
labeled you?
That he missed the bus becausethe universe handed him a box
labeled you.
He didn't text, he just keptwalking Midway down 8th Avenue.
Gustav Wynn nearly knocked thebox out of his hands.
He clutched it tighter.
Something about that momentfelt too metaphorical.
When he finally reached thebuilding glass, metal, beige a
(07:29):
familiar numbness returned.
He scanned in the securityguard, nodded like always, as if
he recognized the man whopassed through life without
leaving a mark At his desk.
He set the box beside hiskeyboard.
He didn't open it.
All morning it sat thereunmoving but unnoticed.
It had presence, like a guestwho never introduced themselves.
Colleagues came and went,emails pinged, time crawled and
(07:52):
every so often his eyes woulddrift toward it.
At lunch he didn't eat, juststared at the thing, turned it
again in his hands.
Still no label, still no seams,just cardboard and a name you.
By the time the workday ended hestill hadn't opened it.
It wasn't fear.
(08:12):
Well, not exactly.
It was more like reverence,like he knew the moment he broke
the seal the story would change.
So he waited, carried it homeunderneath his arm, took the
stairs instead of the elevator.
When he walked into hisapartment he didn't turn on the
lights, just placed the box onthe table, stood over it and
(08:36):
exhaled.
He finally finally opened it.
Finally opened it Inside a key.
That's it.
No note, no phone, just one keyresting in the center of the
box like a relic.
It was heavier than it looked.
It was cold to the touch.
It was old-fashioned iron maybe, or brass or something else.
(09:00):
He turned it over in his palm.
There were no markings, noindication of what it opened,
but holding it made him feelsomething that it felt in a long
time Curious.
He sat on the table, besideslaying his quote, scribbling on
(09:24):
a napkin he'd saved from themorning Means.
They know who they are.
He didn't know who he was notyet, but this felt like a
beginning.
The next morning he woke upbefore the alarm no reason, no
noise, just open eyes in astrange stillness.
(09:44):
The sun hadn't fully risen yet,but there was a lightness in
the air that felt Well off, butnot bad, not good, just
Different.
Like walking into a room wheresomeone had just been talking
about you.
He sat on the edge of the bedfor a while, socks on the floor,
(10:07):
window cracked, the key stillon the table, catching the soft
glove done like it was basking.
He didn't, he didn't touch it,he just stared at it then with
more energy than expected.
He got up, he showered, evenshaved.
He didn't rush, it just movedlike the weight he always
(10:30):
carried.
It shifted ever so slightly tothe side by the time he left his
apartment.
He had time to stop for coffee,but he didn't.
He looked down the blocktowards Lena's shop, watched
someone else walk in, watchedthe door swing closed.
His feet didn't follow.
(10:53):
He kept walking.
Half a block later he slowedand he looked back.
Just a quick glance through thewindow.
She was there pouring something, laughing at something, not
looking out, but still he knewshe noticed.
He felt it Somewhere in hischest.
(11:14):
At work things were strange inthat low-frequency kind of way.
A file he thought was overduehad already been handled.
An email from a client who'dnever responded before was now
complimentary.
His manager stopped by his deskmid-morning with two coffees
and handed one without sayingwhy.
Thought you could use it.
(11:37):
She said.
He blinked Thanks.
She nodded and walked off.
That had never happened before.
The coffee was made exactly howhe liked it.
The small things kept piling upAn extra refund from a
subscription.
He didn't remember canceling Afriend he had heard from in
months texting just to say hey,I was thinking about you today.
(12:05):
The elevator at home, whichnormally took forever, was
waiting for him open when hearrived.
None of it was magic, none ofit was big, but it felt like
something just out of sight wasshifting.
The key never moved, it stayedexactly where he left it, but
its presence grew louder.
Somehow I was watching him,watch his life start to soften
(12:31):
at the edges.
He didn't feel joy Well, notyet but he felt motion.
And that was new.
Later that night he opened hislaptop just to check something,
though he wasn't sure what.
An old side project heabandoned had somehow picked up
(12:53):
traction.
A stranger left a comment on atwo-year-old blog post.
This helped me more than youknow.
He read that comment three,four, five times now, Just
(13:14):
stared at it.
Then he closed the laptopslowly, like he didn't want to
scare the moment away.
He sat at the table with the keyagain.
He turned it in his fingers,thought about where it came from
, why it came to him.
It didn't feel earned.
Well, none of this did.
(13:35):
And that was the ache justbeneath the surface.
Not that things were changing,but they.
He didn't believe he wasallowed to receive any of it.
He wrote in his notebookSomething he hadn't done in
months.
Things are getting better, butI don't know if I deserve it.
(13:59):
Then he crossed it out Rona'sdead.
I'll try to stay open.
He didn't sleep early, he didn'tsleep late, but for the first
time in a long time he didn'tdread waking up.
He didn't stop at the coffeeshop that morning, but he
(14:20):
thought about it.
He thought about the way shesmiled before speaking, the way
she always remembered his drink,the way her eyes never seemed
rushed.
He kept walking, told himselfhe was late, that he didn't need
it, that it was just coffee.
But half a block later heturned around, just for a glance
(14:41):
.
She was there behind thecounter laughing at something.
Someone said, not looking out,but somehow he knew she'd seen
him.
He turned back and kept walkingAt work.
He couldn't focus, not on theemails, not on the meetings, not
(15:06):
on the spreadsheet he stared atthree times without absorbing a
single number.
But because she was still inhis head, not the way she looked
, but the way she never lookedthrough him, the way she told
him people who order withoutlooking at the menu.
They know who they are, but hedidn't know who he was not yet.
(15:30):
But maybe he was starting to.
That evening he walked past theshop again lights still on,
fewer customers.
She was wiping down the counteralone.
That evening he walked past theshop again lights still on,
fewer customers.
She was wiping down the counteralone.
She looked up just for a second.
Their eyes met.
No wave, no smile, justrecognition.
(15:54):
He gave a small nod.
She held his gaze a secondlonger, longer, then turned to
switch off the lights.
He stood there for a momentlonger, unsure of what he was
waiting for, then walked home.
That night he took the napkinout of his drawer, the one she'd
(16:15):
written on weeks ago.
Next one's on me, al.
He smoothed the folds with histhumb.
The one she'd written on weeksago.
Next one's on me, al.
He smoothed the folds with histhumb, then placed a key beside
it, like two parts of a story.
He wasn't ready to finish, butno longer willing to forget.
(16:37):
He didn't sleep fully either.
He just floated in thatin-between space where dreams
smear into thoughts and thoughtsnever quite finish their
sentences.
When morning came, it didn'tfeel like a new day.
I felt like the continuation ofa conversation he hadn't
realized.
He was in.
The key was on the table, buthe didn't touch it.
(16:59):
Just let it exist, let itbreathe, let it be what it was,
proof that something wasdifferent.
Now he took a different route towork, not on purpose.
Just follow the sidewalkwherever it curved, and the city
opened up, not metaphorically,literally Streets.
(17:23):
He had walked Windows withshops.
He'd never noticed A florist ona corner where he always
assumed there was nothing.
A staircase leading to arooftop cafe, a bench facing
east that caught the morninglight just right.
It felt like the city wasunfolding for him, like it had
(17:45):
been waiting for him to finallypay attention, and maybe that
was a real shift.
Not what was happening to him,but what was happening in him.
He wasn't trying to escapeanymore, he was starting to stay
.
That afternoon he worked withoutrushing, listened without
(18:12):
planning his reply.
He said less, not because hehad nothing to say, but because
he was finally okay with notfeeling every moment.
Okay with not feeling everymoment.
That evening he walked slower,took the long way home on
purpose, passed a bookstore witha handwritten sign that said
you're still becoming.
He stopped, read it twice,didn't go in.
(18:34):
He just smiled and then walkedon.
That night he turned every lightoff in his apartment, sat at
the table in the dark, the keyand the napkin side by side.
He's not looking for answers,just honoring the fact that
maybe for the first time hedidn't need one.
(18:57):
He told himself it didn'tmatter.
The key, the timing, the waythe air felt different in his
lungs.
Coincidence, he thought, notcause Just luck, or maybe
delusion.
But the second he told himselfthat something shifted, not in
(19:20):
the room but in him, a subtlerecoil Like his body had heard.
That lie before his mind could,because deep, deep down he knew
this wasn't random.
Things were changing, and notjust outside Inside, quietly.
Things were changing, and notjust outside, inside, quietly,
(19:42):
deliberately.
And that terrified him morethan failure ever had.
Because if this was real, ifsomething sacred had begun to
move inside his life, then hecould no longer pretend he
wasn't responsible for what camenext.
(20:03):
He sat at the table, the keyresting beside his notebook, the
napkin folded once then again,his hand hovered over the page
for a long time before he wrote.
I don't know what I'm becoming,but I think it's someone I've
missed.
He stared at it for a long time, not because it sounded poetic,
(20:25):
but because it didn't.
It sounded honest and thatscared him too.
He looked at the key, turned itover in his hand.
It felt warm, or maybe hefinally stopped being cold.
He stood, not to leave, just tomove, to breathe.
(20:48):
For the first time in years, hedidn't check his phone, he
didn't turn on the TV, he didn'treach for noise, he let the
silence grow.
And in that silence he heardthe beginning of something he
didn't know how to name.
Not purpose, not peace, but thepossibility of presence.
(21:11):
And for now that was enough tokeep going.
He didn't go to bed right away,he didn't scroll.
He didn't go to bed right away,he didn't scroll, he didn't
replay the day, he didn't reachfor anything.
He just stood in his kitchenwith the lights off, watching
the orange streetlights spillthrough the blinds like it was
(21:32):
trying not to wake him.
There were dishes in the sink,a singer's seat on the counter,
silence sitting in the room,like an old friend who didn't
need to say anything.
The key was in his pocket, butit didn't feel like an object
anymore.
It felt like a signal, apresence, a reminder.
(21:54):
He pulled it out and placed itgently on the table Right next
to the folded napkin.
Then he sat down.
No ceremony, no grand gesture,just a man in the beginning of
his willingness to be honest.
He opened the notebook againand read what he had written.
I don't know what I'm becoming,but I think it's someone I've
(22:16):
missed.
Then, underneath it, he addedit doesn't have to be dramatic
to be real, it just has to bemine.
He closed the notebook andleaned back.
Something loosened in his chest, not relief, not release, just
(22:36):
space.
And for the first time in along time, he wasn't feeling the
silence, he was sharing it.
The room didn't change, the airdidn't shimmer, the city didn't
quiet for him because somethinginside him had stopped running
and the pause was holy.
(22:57):
He didn't think about Lena.
He didn't have to.
She'd been the only person whoever looked at him like
something sacred, was still inthere.
But now, for the first time, hesaw it too, not clearly, not
fully, but enough and enough iswhere it all begins, oh man.
(23:24):
So let's go ahead and get intothe monologue.
You know this wasn't a story.
This was a beginning, right,and not the kind we usually
celebrate.
You know, there's no fireworks,there's no pause, no grand
reveal.
(23:44):
It's just a man and a key and achoice to stop rushing past his
life.
Maybe you felt that too, thatslow ache, beneath the noise,
the small invitations he keptwalking past, the coffee, the
(24:07):
message, the silence he neverlet stretch long enough to hear
what it is he was trying to say.
It's easy to miss, isn't it thereal moment, the actual start
of something?
Because most of us are taughtto wait for lightning, because
beginnings don't always arrivewith thunder, sometimes they
come wrapped in quiet, insomething ordinary that won't
(24:29):
stop echoing.
He thought the key would unlocksomething out there.
What he found was presence,stillness, a life he stopped
noticing.
And maybe that's what thisepisode was really about Not
change, not success, but whathappens when he, when we, I
should say, finally stop longenough, to be honest?
(24:52):
So, before we move on to thenext thing, I want you to sit
with it, replay the moment thathit you, the line that wouldn't
let go, that hit you, the linethat wouldn't let go.
Then ask yourself what's thekey in your life right now?
And are you finally ready tosee what it's been trying to
(25:12):
show you?
So let's go ahead and let's getinto our reflection prompts.
Reflection prompt number onewhat's the moment you keep
skipping past every day?
Is it the quiet one?
Is it the coffee?
The passing smile, the unopenedmessage.
What if that moment was theinvitation you've been waiting
(25:38):
for?
Number two, invitation you'vebeen waiting for.
Number two who did you used tobe before you started performing
?
Not who you became, not whatyou built, but who you were when
you started, or I should say,when you still ordered without
(26:02):
looking at a menu.
Okay, number three when did youstart believing that silence
meant failure, that stillnesswasn't productive, that pausing
meant that you were fallingbehind?
What if presence is the onlything you've ever been missing?
(26:23):
Number four have you confusedprogress with disappearance?
See, a lot of people think thatit's, you know, more success,
more polish, more admiration.
But are you still here and doyou still recognize the one who
(26:44):
began this with you?
Do you still recognize thatself?
Number five if a key showed upat your door right now, would
you be ready to notice it?
And, more importantly, has italready showed up and you just
(27:08):
haven't seen it yet?
So you know, I'm actually really, really excited about this
series.
You know, especially coming offremembrance.
This is more of a real lifekind of down on your luck kind
of guy I mean.
Obviously we're gonna.
You know there's gonna be a lotof things that are gonna change
in his life, but one of the keythings you're gonna see that's
(27:32):
gonna be an overriding thingthat he's gonna have struggles
with his presence, becausethat's something we all have
struggles with.
So you're definitely gonna seea lot of that in this series.
But I want to thank you guys Imean as always for all your
support.
It's just I'm so thankful andjust so grateful for everybody
(27:56):
who listens to this on a dailybasis.
There's a lot of work that goesinto creating these stories,
creating these characters,creating all of this, and I
couldn't do it without yoursupport.
So I just I'm just grateful foryour support and your viewer or
I should say in this point,listenership.
(28:17):
All right Now, if you have anyquestions about this series or
how you could apply this to yourlife, there's a couple of ways
you can get ahold of me.
First way is going to be throughthe description of this podcast
.
You click on it and say let'schat.
You click on that you and Icould have a conversation about
this series, this episode orwhat the eight or nine other
(28:40):
series we have out there and the260 now, plus episodes that we
have on Gents Journey.
Second way is going to bethrough my email.
My email isanthonyatgentsjourneycom, so
please, please, please, don'thesitate to reach out to me
there.
And, last but not least, youcan always go to my Instagram.
(29:00):
My Instagram handle is my gentsjourney.
So, again, I want to thank youagain from the bottom of my
heart for listening today, and Ithink we're gonna have a great,
great, great series here on ourhands.
So, again, thank you so muchfor listening today and remember
(29:21):
this you create your reality.
Take care.
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast.
My name is Anthony, your host,and today we are starting a
brand new series.
This series is called the Keyto Everything.
I think you guys are reallygoing to enjoy this.
(00:21):
So let's go ahead, as we alwaysdo, and let's go ahead and get
in the cold opening.
He skipped breakfast again, notbecause he was broke though or
for being honest, he was butbecause the silence of eating
alone has started to feelheavier than hunger.
It's the kind of silence thatwraps around you like an old
(00:43):
winter coat, familiar and worn,and just uncomfortable enough to
remind you that you're stillwearing it.
He locked the door with a quietclick.
Third time this week thehallway light had flickered as
he passed beneath it.
A superstitious man might havetaken it as a sign.
He just took it as a Tuesday.
The elevator made its usualnoise half groan, half sigh and
(01:08):
paused at every four, even theones no one had called, like the
building was stalling or justdidn't want him to arrive too
soon.
He didn't blame it.
The city was still waking upwhen he stepped outside Pale
lights, distant cars, the faintscent of burnt toast from diners
across the street.
(01:28):
He inhaled, then exhaled slowlythrough his nose A habit from
some mindfulness podcast he'dlistened to half-asleep three
months ago.
He passed the mirror in theapartment lobby without looking,
not of humility, just not ahabit.
He already knew what he lookedlike Most days, it didn't matter
(01:51):
.
At the corner coffee shop thebarista smiled before he spoke.
She always did.
It wasn't flirty smile, it was,or customer service smile.
It was that rare kind, that onethat someone gives when they've
already decided you're worthbeing kind to, whether you
notice or not.
The usual, she asked.
(02:12):
He nodded.
She turned to pour it.
No hesitation, no questions.
She remembered how he liked it.
He never remembered telling her.
When he thanked her she justtilted her head just slightly
and said I like people who orderwithout looking at the menu
Means, they know who they are.
He started to go back a littlebit and blinked, she said, like
(02:37):
a throwaway line, but it stayedwith him the whole walk home.
Later that day, long after shesaid it, long after the coffee
cooled, he found himself writingit down on the back of an old
envelope Just that one line,nothing else.
The alarm had gone off.
Off that he was sure heremembered hitting snooze once,
(03:03):
maybe twice, but somewherebetween closing his eyes and
opening them again.
Nearly half-hour it slippedaway like a thief through an
open window.
The sun was already burningthrough the blinds, painting the
crackled white walls with toohonest light.
Dust hung in the air like tinytruths, visible only when he
(03:23):
slowed down to notice them,which he never did.
He skipped the shower again,washed his face with cold water
from the chip sink and ran hisfingers through his sleek,
flattened hair, trying to makeit look intentional.
The bathroom mirror washalf-fogged from a water heater
doing its best.
He wiped it with his sleeve,regretting that instantly.
(03:45):
The shirt he chose wasn't theone he wanted, but it was the
one that didn't smell likeyesterday.
The collar wouldn't lie flat.
He buttoned it wrong the firsttime, cursed under his breath
and started again.
His shoes were by the door, oneupright, one on its side, like
it had given up, were by thedoor, one upright, one on its
(04:07):
side, like it had given up.
He grabbed both, stomped themon and reached for his bag half
zipped, always half zipped andslung it over his shoulder.
On his way out he knocked overa stack of unopened mail.
He let it fall.
The hallway light flickeredagain as he locked the door
behind him.
He had just stopped noticingthat weeks ago, but today it
annoyed him.
The elevator, of course, was onanother floor.
(04:29):
He jabbed the down button,waited six seconds, then bolted
for the stairs Three flights andeach one reminded him that he
hadn't been in the gym in a long, long time.
At the bottom he pushed themain door with his shoulder.
He almost collided with thedelivery guy coming up the steps
(04:50):
.
The man wore the brown uniform,the kind that made every season
look too hot.
He was holding a small box,apartment 3B.
The delivery guy asked, glancingdown at his scanner.
He nodded, walking past.
Yeah, that's me, I need you tosign.
He hesitated, looked at hisphone Already five minutes late
(05:13):
and the bus didn't wait.
But he took the stylus,scribbled something that barely
looked like his name.
The box was handed over like ariddle no label, no return label
, no logo, just a namehandwritten in pen you.
He started it for a second toolong.
The delivery guy raised aneyebrow but didn't ask, just
(05:35):
turned and disappeared down thesteps like a ghost fulfilling an
ancient duty.
He turned the box over twice,twice.
No weight to it, but somethingabout it felt solid.
He turned the box over twice,twice.
No weight to it, but somethingabout it felt solid, like it
didn't want to be ignored.
But the bus was coming.
He shoved into his bag withoutopening it and jogged to the
(05:56):
corner.
Of course the bus was early.
He watched his tails likedisappear before he reached the
stop.
The ache in his chest wasn'tabout the job, it wasn't about
the bus, it was about the ache.
That kind of shows up when theuniverse feels like it's already
moving on without you.
He stood there for a while nobackup bus, just the usual
(06:17):
morning traffic and a crackedsidewalk beneath his feet.
He pulled the box back out.
It was just still there,waiting, heavy, without mass,
meaningful, without reason.
He thought about throwing itaway, but something he wouldn't
call it a voice, more like asuggestion whispered, don't?
(06:40):
He tucked it under his arm andstarted walking downtown 15
blocks to work.
He could make it Well, maybe.
At the third crosswalk he pulledout his phone to let his
manager know he'd be late, thenthought better of it.
What would he even say?
What?
That he overslept again?
That he missed the bus becausethe universe handed him a box
(07:03):
labeled you?
That he missed the bus becausethe universe handed him a box
labeled you.
He didn't text, he just keptwalking Midway down 8th Avenue.
Gustav Wynn nearly knocked thebox out of his hands.
He clutched it tighter.
Something about that momentfelt too metaphorical.
When he finally reached thebuilding glass, metal, beige a
(07:29):
familiar numbness returned.
He scanned in the securityguard, nodded like always, as if
he recognized the man whopassed through life without
leaving a mark At his desk.
He set the box beside hiskeyboard.
He didn't open it.
All morning it sat thereunmoving but unnoticed.
It had presence, like a guestwho never introduced themselves.
Colleagues came and went,emails pinged, time crawled and
(07:52):
every so often his eyes woulddrift toward it.
At lunch he didn't eat, juststared at the thing, turned it
again in his hands.
Still no label, still no seams,just cardboard and a name you.
By the time the workday ended hestill hadn't opened it.
It wasn't fear.
(08:12):
Well, not exactly.
It was more like reverence,like he knew the moment he broke
the seal the story would change.
So he waited, carried it homeunderneath his arm, took the
stairs instead of the elevator.
When he walked into hisapartment he didn't turn on the
lights, just placed the box onthe table, stood over it and
(08:36):
exhaled.
He finally finally opened it.
Finally opened it Inside a key.
That's it.
No note, no phone, just one keyresting in the center of the
box like a relic.
It was heavier than it looked.
It was cold to the touch.
It was old-fashioned iron maybe, or brass or something else.
(09:00):
He turned it over in his palm.
There were no markings, noindication of what it opened,
but holding it made him feelsomething that it felt in a long
time Curious.
He sat on the table, besideslaying his quote, scribbling on
(09:24):
a napkin he'd saved from themorning Means.
They know who they are.
He didn't know who he was notyet, but this felt like a
beginning.
The next morning he woke upbefore the alarm no reason, no
noise, just open eyes in astrange stillness.
(09:44):
The sun hadn't fully risen yet,but there was a lightness in
the air that felt Well off, butnot bad, not good, just
Different.
Like walking into a room wheresomeone had just been talking
about you.
He sat on the edge of the bedfor a while, socks on the floor,
(10:07):
window cracked, the key stillon the table, catching the soft
glove done like it was basking.
He didn't, he didn't touch it,he just stared at it then with
more energy than expected.
He got up, he showered, evenshaved.
He didn't rush, it just movedlike the weight he always
(10:30):
carried.
It shifted ever so slightly tothe side by the time he left his
apartment.
He had time to stop for coffee,but he didn't.
He looked down the blocktowards Lena's shop, watched
someone else walk in, watchedthe door swing closed.
His feet didn't follow.
(10:53):
He kept walking.
Half a block later he slowedand he looked back.
Just a quick glance through thewindow.
She was there pouring something, laughing at something, not
looking out, but still he knewshe noticed.
He felt it Somewhere in hischest.
(11:14):
At work things were strange inthat low-frequency kind of way.
A file he thought was overduehad already been handled.
An email from a client who'dnever responded before was now
complimentary.
His manager stopped by his deskmid-morning with two coffees
and handed one without sayingwhy.
Thought you could use it.
(11:37):
She said.
He blinked Thanks.
She nodded and walked off.
That had never happened before.
The coffee was made exactly howhe liked it.
The small things kept piling upAn extra refund from a
subscription.
He didn't remember canceling Afriend he had heard from in
months texting just to say hey,I was thinking about you today.
(12:05):
The elevator at home, whichnormally took forever, was
waiting for him open when hearrived.
None of it was magic, none ofit was big, but it felt like
something just out of sight wasshifting.
The key never moved, it stayedexactly where he left it, but
its presence grew louder.
Somehow I was watching him,watch his life start to soften
(12:31):
at the edges.
He didn't feel joy Well, notyet but he felt motion.
And that was new.
Later that night he opened hislaptop just to check something,
though he wasn't sure what.
An old side project heabandoned had somehow picked up
(12:53):
traction.
A stranger left a comment on atwo-year-old blog post.
This helped me more than youknow.
He read that comment three,four, five times now, Just
(13:14):
stared at it.
Then he closed the laptopslowly, like he didn't want to
scare the moment away.
He sat at the table with the keyagain.
He turned it in his fingers,thought about where it came from
, why it came to him.
It didn't feel earned.
Well, none of this did.
(13:35):
And that was the ache justbeneath the surface.
Not that things were changing,but they.
He didn't believe he wasallowed to receive any of it.
He wrote in his notebookSomething he hadn't done in
months.
Things are getting better, butI don't know if I deserve it.
(13:59):
Then he crossed it out Rona'sdead.
I'll try to stay open.
He didn't sleep early, he didn'tsleep late, but for the first
time in a long time he didn'tdread waking up.
He didn't stop at the coffeeshop that morning, but he
(14:20):
thought about it.
He thought about the way shesmiled before speaking, the way
she always remembered his drink,the way her eyes never seemed
rushed.
He kept walking, told himselfhe was late, that he didn't need
it, that it was just coffee.
But half a block later heturned around, just for a glance
(14:41):
.
She was there behind thecounter laughing at something.
Someone said, not looking out,but somehow he knew she'd seen
him.
He turned back and kept walkingAt work.
He couldn't focus, not on theemails, not on the meetings, not
(15:06):
on the spreadsheet he stared atthree times without absorbing a
single number.
But because she was still inhis head, not the way she looked
, but the way she never lookedthrough him, the way she told
him people who order withoutlooking at the menu.
They know who they are, but hedidn't know who he was not yet.
(15:30):
But maybe he was starting to.
That evening he walked past theshop again lights still on,
fewer customers.
She was wiping down the counteralone.
That evening he walked past theshop again lights still on,
fewer customers.
She was wiping down the counteralone.
She looked up just for a second.
Their eyes met.
No wave, no smile, justrecognition.
(15:54):
He gave a small nod.
She held his gaze a secondlonger, longer, then turned to
switch off the lights.
He stood there for a momentlonger, unsure of what he was
waiting for, then walked home.
That night he took the napkinout of his drawer, the one she'd
(16:15):
written on weeks ago.
Next one's on me, al.
He smoothed the folds with histhumb.
The one she'd written on weeksago.
Next one's on me, al.
He smoothed the folds with histhumb, then placed a key beside
it, like two parts of a story.
He wasn't ready to finish, butno longer willing to forget.
(16:37):
He didn't sleep fully either.
He just floated in thatin-between space where dreams
smear into thoughts and thoughtsnever quite finish their
sentences.
When morning came, it didn'tfeel like a new day.
I felt like the continuation ofa conversation he hadn't
realized.
He was in.
The key was on the table, buthe didn't touch it.
(16:59):
Just let it exist, let itbreathe, let it be what it was,
proof that something wasdifferent.
Now he took a different route towork, not on purpose.
Just follow the sidewalkwherever it curved, and the city
opened up, not metaphorically,literally Streets.
(17:23):
He had walked Windows withshops.
He'd never noticed A florist ona corner where he always
assumed there was nothing.
A staircase leading to arooftop cafe, a bench facing
east that caught the morninglight just right.
It felt like the city wasunfolding for him, like it had
(17:45):
been waiting for him to finallypay attention, and maybe that
was a real shift.
Not what was happening to him,but what was happening in him.
He wasn't trying to escapeanymore, he was starting to stay
.
That afternoon he worked withoutrushing, listened without
(18:12):
planning his reply.
He said less, not because hehad nothing to say, but because
he was finally okay with notfeeling every moment.
Okay with not feeling everymoment.
That evening he walked slower,took the long way home on
purpose, passed a bookstore witha handwritten sign that said
you're still becoming.
He stopped, read it twice,didn't go in.
(18:34):
He just smiled and then walkedon.
That night he turned every lightoff in his apartment, sat at
the table in the dark, the keyand the napkin side by side.
He's not looking for answers,just honoring the fact that
maybe for the first time hedidn't need one.
(18:57):
He told himself it didn'tmatter.
The key, the timing, the waythe air felt different in his
lungs.
Coincidence, he thought, notcause Just luck, or maybe
delusion.
But the second he told himselfthat something shifted, not in
(19:20):
the room but in him, a subtlerecoil Like his body had heard.
That lie before his mind could,because deep, deep down he knew
this wasn't random.
Things were changing, and notjust outside Inside, quietly.
Things were changing, and notjust outside, inside, quietly,
(19:42):
deliberately.
And that terrified him morethan failure ever had.
Because if this was real, ifsomething sacred had begun to
move inside his life, then hecould no longer pretend he
wasn't responsible for what camenext.
(20:03):
He sat at the table, the keyresting beside his notebook, the
napkin folded once then again,his hand hovered over the page
for a long time before he wrote.
I don't know what I'm becoming,but I think it's someone I've
missed.
He stared at it for a long time, not because it sounded poetic,
(20:25):
but because it didn't.
It sounded honest and thatscared him too.
He looked at the key, turned itover in his hand.
It felt warm, or maybe hefinally stopped being cold.
He stood, not to leave, just tomove, to breathe.
(20:48):
For the first time in years, hedidn't check his phone, he
didn't turn on the TV, he didn'treach for noise, he let the
silence grow.
And in that silence he heardthe beginning of something he
didn't know how to name.
Not purpose, not peace, but thepossibility of presence.
(21:11):
And for now that was enough tokeep going.
He didn't go to bed right away,he didn't scroll.
He didn't go to bed right away,he didn't scroll, he didn't
replay the day, he didn't reachfor anything.
He just stood in his kitchenwith the lights off, watching
the orange streetlights spillthrough the blinds like it was
(21:32):
trying not to wake him.
There were dishes in the sink,a singer's seat on the counter,
silence sitting in the room,like an old friend who didn't
need to say anything.
The key was in his pocket, butit didn't feel like an object
anymore.
It felt like a signal, apresence, a reminder.
(21:54):
He pulled it out and placed itgently on the table Right next
to the folded napkin.
Then he sat down.
No ceremony, no grand gesture,just a man in the beginning of
his willingness to be honest.
He opened the notebook againand read what he had written.
I don't know what I'm becoming,but I think it's someone I've
(22:16):
missed.
Then, underneath it, he addedit doesn't have to be dramatic
to be real, it just has to bemine.
He closed the notebook andleaned back.
Something loosened in his chest, not relief, not release, just
(22:36):
space.
And for the first time in along time, he wasn't feeling the
silence, he was sharing it.
The room didn't change, the airdidn't shimmer, the city didn't
quiet for him because somethinginside him had stopped running
and the pause was holy.
(22:57):
He didn't think about Lena.
He didn't have to.
She'd been the only person whoever looked at him like
something sacred, was still inthere.
But now, for the first time, hesaw it too, not clearly, not
fully, but enough and enough iswhere it all begins, oh man.
(23:24):
So let's go ahead and get intothe monologue.
You know this wasn't a story.
This was a beginning, right,and not the kind we usually
celebrate.
You know, there's no fireworks,there's no pause, no grand
reveal.
(23:44):
It's just a man and a key and achoice to stop rushing past his
life.
Maybe you felt that too, thatslow ache, beneath the noise,
the small invitations he keptwalking past, the coffee, the
(24:07):
message, the silence he neverlet stretch long enough to hear
what it is he was trying to say.
It's easy to miss, isn't it thereal moment, the actual start
of something?
Because most of us are taughtto wait for lightning, because
beginnings don't always arrivewith thunder, sometimes they
come wrapped in quiet, insomething ordinary that won't
(24:29):
stop echoing.
He thought the key would unlocksomething out there.
What he found was presence,stillness, a life he stopped
noticing.
And maybe that's what thisepisode was really about Not
change, not success, but whathappens when he, when we, I
should say, finally stop longenough, to be honest?
(24:52):
So, before we move on to thenext thing, I want you to sit
with it, replay the moment thathit you, the line that wouldn't
let go, that hit you, the linethat wouldn't let go.
Then ask yourself what's thekey in your life right now?
And are you finally ready tosee what it's been trying to
(25:12):
show you?
So let's go ahead and let's getinto our reflection prompts.
Reflection prompt number onewhat's the moment you keep
skipping past every day?
Is it the quiet one?
Is it the coffee?
The passing smile, the unopenedmessage.
What if that moment was theinvitation you've been waiting
(25:38):
for?
Number two, invitation you'vebeen waiting for.
Number two who did you used tobe before you started performing
?
Not who you became, not whatyou built, but who you were when
you started, or I should say,when you still ordered without
(26:02):
looking at a menu.
Okay, number three when did youstart believing that silence
meant failure, that stillnesswasn't productive, that pausing
meant that you were fallingbehind?
What if presence is the onlything you've ever been missing?
(26:23):
Number four have you confusedprogress with disappearance?
See, a lot of people think thatit's, you know, more success,
more polish, more admiration.
But are you still here and doyou still recognize the one who
(26:44):
began this with you?
Do you still recognize thatself?
Number five if a key showed upat your door right now, would
you be ready to notice it?
And, more importantly, has italready showed up and you just
(27:08):
haven't seen it yet?
So you know, I'm actually really, really excited about this
series.
You know, especially coming offremembrance.
This is more of a real lifekind of down on your luck kind
of guy I mean.
Obviously we're gonna.
You know there's gonna be a lotof things that are gonna change
in his life, but one of the keythings you're gonna see that's
(27:32):
gonna be an overriding thingthat he's gonna have struggles
with his presence, becausethat's something we all have
struggles with.
So you're definitely gonna seea lot of that in this series.
But I want to thank you guys Imean as always for all your
support.
It's just I'm so thankful andjust so grateful for everybody
(27:56):
who listens to this on a dailybasis.
There's a lot of work that goesinto creating these stories,
creating these characters,creating all of this, and I
couldn't do it without yoursupport.
So I just I'm just grateful foryour support and your viewer or
I should say in this point,listenership.
(28:17):
All right Now, if you have anyquestions about this series or
how you could apply this to yourlife, there's a couple of ways
you can get ahold of me.
First way is going to be throughthe description of this podcast
.
You click on it and say let'schat.
You click on that you and Icould have a conversation about
this series, this episode orwhat the eight or nine other
(28:40):
series we have out there and the260 now, plus episodes that we
have on Gents Journey.
Second way is going to bethrough my email.
My email isanthonyatgentsjourneycom, so
please, please, please, don'thesitate to reach out to me
there.
And, last but not least, youcan always go to my Instagram.
(29:00):
My Instagram handle is my gentsjourney.
So, again, I want to thank youagain from the bottom of my
heart for listening today, and Ithink we're gonna have a great,
great, great series here on ourhands.
So, again, thank you so muchfor listening today and remember
(29:21):
this you create your reality.
Take care.
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