The stairs creak as you make your way up and down, countless times in a day because you are used to fitting everything you own in so few square feet that your brain never has to remember to bring the useful bits along all at once.
Last night, I stood in the large country kitchen, feeding the sourdough starter and finding ease in the repetitive motion of dishes, of putting a day to rest. The breath comes easy then, the lungs fill and expel in rhythm, haunted by no metropolitan pace, no airs. In the morning, I lie in the dead stillness of a sleeping village, reading old novels left behind by generations of having enough space to not clear them out. There is a gift here somewhere, you are desperate to find it, but gifts do not acquiesce to your desperation.
The Universe does not give a shit.
One summer I broke every bone in my heart and ran away to the sea for comfort, I've sat under so many desert skies counting shooting stars, I have asked for gifts in every corner of this planet, but the truth is only one day of each year is your birthday and every other day you still have to keep living, even without the fanfare. Believe the Pearl will be handed to you.
But keep walking the line or you'll miss it.
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