Over the years, I thought I would have accomplished so much more. At 23, I told my grandmother I would be well off by 25. 28 and a week closer to 29 and here I am, chasing my tail, stumbling through the same string of thoughts I had when I was less than a quarter-century old.
Though somehow, through tragedy, I find meaning which produces trajectory.
Fueled by this alien momentum, I’m propelled forward, guided by words passed down by previous people, some like me, some infinitely different.
Time passes, and my belly grows.