The weather turns blustery, spirits traveling on cold winds to stretch their limbs and check in on those they've left behind, it's all roll of the dice who's worse off. I sleep late in the little shoebox, the radiators bubbling and no one to interrupt the spectres inside my chest. Close my eyes again and see all the truths line up: how the way we spend our days is how we live our lives, the distractions of love and happiness, at the end of it all, how only one thing glows like a treasure, how it never followed prescribed courses and retirement accounts. Later, I repot the little avocado tree that has been flourishing in the shoebox's window, see imprints of its roots at the bottom of the old pot, touch them tenderly to see a life straining against its edges. How comforting a home can be, even while you have outgrown it. How leaving your mark doesn't mean it's good or bad, by definition.
The only answer was always the Word. The only reason was always to let it roar until you die or it dies in you.
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