we’re at that limbo-esque stage of the year where you’ve got enough distance from the beginning that you can step outside of yourself and stand next to the version of the same girl who greeted january’s skies, and you’ll see different truths moving under her skin, different fears and views constantly shifting within. but it’s far enough away from the end of the year that you’ve also got this reminder of temporality resting in the pit of your stomach, and you know deep down that june is just as illusory and arbitrary as any point on a calendar. so here you exist, in this narrow non-time, in that split second before the drop falls from the clouds and essence spills down the sides of the earth, where things are frozen, as though awaiting the hands of spring to lift shadows from the ground and unveil reality once again.
