Even if I’m walking in circles, at least I’m still walking. I’m stretching again for the first time in a long time. Feel the space between my bones and cartilage expand and fill with air. Later at night, it thanks me for the breathing because it feels something like healing. I practice it until I feel worthy.

My hands aren’t my hands- they’re a product of what happened. And there’s been so much damage from carrying. I can’t seem to remember life before and after it all. It’s the catalyst. It’s the moment where the world told me it’s over, move on- even if that means walking in circles. I’ve been trying ever since. I promise I’ve been trying. Lately I’ve been wondering if trying is even enough.

So I practice my breathing until I understand it better. I question my definition of finality and ask myself, “why did you let a part of you die that day too?”. And maybe it wasn’t a choice. Maybe it was a knee jerk reaction to bending and breaking and surrendering. Later that night I doze off for twenty minutes and dream of a completely different life. I wake up knowing that a part of it has to be permanent. How could it not be? My subconscious doesn’t speak, it fucking screams. I feel my bones ache and wonder if I’ll ever have the strength to mend the broken ones. It just takes time, that’s what everyone tells me.

And if any of the ghosts I once knew are listening, please know that I miss you dearly. And when you’re not watching out for me, I hope I’m somehow safe. And even if I’m walking in circles, at least I’m still walking.