Lottery

Wednesday morning, September. The calendar is empty, you spend the early hours doing double takes at its page, trying to remember what to do with such a gift. A familiar soundtrack plays in your room, it recognizes fall, and purpose, and the act of sitting at that god damned white sheet of paper and making something of it. The moment feels like walking into your childhood home, a room you know in your blood stream but had let fall through your fingers; how it knows your very core and has only been waiting for your return.

I know I've been off in the weeds, for much too long trying to pick up the pieces of myself lost in the fire, I know I've been all talk and no sobriety, while my actual life sat waiting in the wings. I overslept this morning but my cough is gone, I think the babysteps are turning into toddler tumbles, I think we're moving in the right direction, it isn't life if you're not terrified, it's not
worth it if you don't
prove yourself
braver
than you knew
you could be.