Fire sweeps across California, devastating the lands. Smoke reaches our valley by late afternoon, erasing the mountains from the skyline and subduing any sounds, any thoughts. It is unhealthy for sensitive groups to be outside, and you wonder if that is a scientist joke. We destroy our world one disaster at a time, or many disasters at a time, lately, like we can't help ourselves. The desert dries out your lungs, you wake with parched lips and papery skin, I sleep too late in the silence, stumble through the morning disoriented. What was I meant to be doing, again?
A manuscript lies at the side of your desk. A promise of a new story unfurls in the recesses of your mind. Ah yes, you think, that's what I'm meant to be doing. The answer settles along your spine, lets your shoulders relax, tethers your heart to your breaths. The answer connects you to yourself when you are flailing, reminds you:
Everything else is just means to an end.
But you still have to do them, to reach it.
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