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.
12 am, 1 am, 2, 3. In exchange for sleep, I grind out the minutes, the seconds; caffeine rushing through my blood, momentum blurring in the background.
The good news is I’ve begun to practice accepting my imperfections. For the past couple of days, I’ve written stories that feel nice to write but make little sense. And I’m okay with that.