is Through

I wake early, I have an alarm still but these days I seem to always wake up before it rings, a strange scene I didn't expect. The alarm brings a sense of normalcy into the start of my day. Ten years ago I would have loved the excuse not to have one. I rise before the others, a few hours of quiet before everything wakes, and I can sit in quiet contemplation with myself, with this strange scene of a city, with potential. Once the work starts, I feel tired, try to find every excuse not to tackle a tricky chapter that has haunted me all week. Just do it, my brain yells, but my body moves and sways and slips through its fingers.

This is how I know I am back.

I read another article, write another note, meditate into the waking avenue (doesn't it look busier than before? I don't know that we will remember what the empty streets were truly like, when this is over), procrastinate myself into mandalic patterns around the room. In the back of my head, the chapter paces through my subconscious, aches to work itself out, cries at the lack of attention.

When at last I am out of excuses, the words come to me easily, like a stream, like a poem already written, and that's the thing. I was here all along.

Even in the depths, I am always writing my way out.