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.
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.