The thing about stillness is it takes a while for the forms to take shape. You can only hallucinate fairy tales and ghost stories onto slates fully blank, can only coax sprouts after the ground has rested. I spend the days on long calls with abandoned friendships; it's a generous lesson in love, a gentle reminder of life. At the very back of my mind, quiet little whispers begin. I know them well, long for them like fond absence, but try not to scare the little whisps away. They will come. She asks if I have any goals for 2022, and I cannot begin condense into mere words all the ideas in my mind. They come out sounding a little like hope.
The neighborhood is dark, a desolate country village in the dead of night though it is Saturday just before the dinner rush. I venture out in amazement. So much has been sleeping here, for so long, perhaps it is time for us to wake now.
Rest this last little while. These sprouts are ready to bloom.
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