A Story a Day: Day 11

This is becoming quite the habit, isn’t it?

A ritual, even.

How long does that take to form, to grow, to cultivate?

Spread your wings and fly.

You’ll never walk alone.

We are the products, remnants, descendants of so much else — and we wouldn’t have it any other way.

How could we?

How would we?

Context is all: we exist in it.

And context is selfless: it does nothing but give.

It knows that we will leave, and it welcomes this.

It knows that sometimes it has to die for us to live.

***

I look above and I don’t know what I see.

I need words but they elude me.

The reality of definition: stark.

The reality of life: hard.

The reality of a resolutely-fucking-stupid-human: being.

Sometimes, it sucks.

I don’t know what I see, but I find words to express it, and that makes it real.

Through this, through words, through speech, you recognise me. We find solace in solidarity — the small things. I feel seen and heard and held and greedy. I feel soft and scared and young and dizzy.

The things we don’t say: I’m not asking for much, but my god do I want.

The things we don’t feel: I want to stop.

Breathe: an opening.

Chest to chest, nose to nose, palm to palm: close.

Darkness is not the absence of light, but a space in time in its own right.

Honour it.