My phone claims 3:23

 

Another night of collecting sleep debt.

 

Put it on my tab— I suppose.

 

Am I meant for this?

 

Not in a dramatic, life-altering, sell-all-my-belongings-and-move-to-Bali sort of way.

 

Just enough uncertainty to make the morning feel larger than it is.

 

I’m finding comfort on JPs couch.

 

The sun is barely up, but already the air feels like it’s conspiring with the forecast.

Ninety degrees waits patiently outside the windows, gathering itself.

 

The house is quiet.

 

The kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own existence.

 

My coffee sits untouched beside me. My phone remains mercifully silent. 

Nobody needs anything yet. 

Nobody is asking where I am, what I’m doing, or who I’m becoming.

 

And somehow that feels both freeing and terrifying.

 

Because when the world isn’t telling you who to be, the responsibility falls back into your own lap.

 

The artist could emerge today.

 

The writer.

 

The woman who reorganizes her entire life before noon.

 

The one who disappears into the pool and reads until her fingers wrinkle.

 

The one who paints.

 

The one who rests.

 

The one who finally answers a question she’s been avoiding.

 

Every version of me is standing backstage, waiting for her cue.

 

Outside, the day is stretching its limbs. Inside, I am doing the same.

 

For now, I remain a question mark.

 

Curled at one end.

 

Balanced on a single point.

 

Waiting to see what comes next.