I trust the timing of my life. What is mine will find me. There is abundance in this world. There is enough. Mantras repeated against syncopated breath.
Bhanu Kapil wrote that she was learning to leave the love bed and go upstairs and write. I can set up the writing room and still spend an hour scrolling TikTok in another, evasion the real act. The hazy lavender of the scroll, the slick and stick of screen and fingertip oil.
If it’s coming out, and there it is, the echo rattling back from the cavern’s throat, like always. I was afraid of it once. Now I’m not. Not really. The veil of should slipping. I’m stepping into something that is mine. We all have voices. There are billions drumming in our oceanic ears.
It’s easy not to arrive. Even by just trying, it’s done.
Austin rises around me. Norwood Tower glows from the rooftop, so close I almost think I could touch it. Will we always live here? Where do we go when here becomes too there? Is there a place like this, somewhere else? With winding roads and soft light and ghosts that know my name?
Maybe my feet always itch to move. Maybe I’ve worn out every welcome. Maybe I’m yet to be spat out.
And still, I did that, didn’t I? Slack threads and laptop dinners, building a lot from a little, and crumbling inside it. My drool crusted around the edges. The collapse. The quiet in the gape.
Becoming is a perpetual activity. I need space to do it. Growth doesn’t ask for permission, but it still feels like betrayal. And still, we change.
Oh, what comes next? Life is so short. So wide.
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