It is Friday. I am come undone. I rail against the counsel of fallowness. I pretend to try at nothing, leaning sideways into the obstruction. I am run through.
Friday. Venus in her retrograde sings of veils and unveiling and I do not know the words of this keening, this unraveling, the beauty of coming unformed. I would loosen my grip. I breathe into the fist of my ways, a prayer of opening.
I am still here, still a trembling at the threshold. I am still here. Is that not gratitude?