Your alarms ring early now, you steal time the only place it exists, you steal time from yourself and everything is a haze as your eyes travel across the words of others. After the first cup of coffee, you think about time, wonder what it means in the grand scheme of things: one day we will all die, and then what will we think of the choices we made?
To be fair, you thought you'd be dead years ago, so maybe everything now is just buttercream frosting.
I look at old words, read the stories I've been weaving into my own narrative for years. There's a treasure trove of life there. How insignificant it can look in your hands, and still be a miracle in retrospect. It reminds you everything looks different in sunlight. Soon the four-leaf clovers will make their way out of the earth again, soon the cherry blossoms will pop unabashedly and the river will sparkle, America will stretch out its imperfect expanse and beckon you to touch it, soon the stories will write themselves at your fingertips again.
The paperwork seems less daunting when you know you'll soon have magic within reach.
Don't waste your time looking for purpose
when you know it's already nestled in your spine.
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