unfurling like a fist to an open palm

For whatever reason, the magic comes after.

In the moment, it feels grim and dark and you cannot put into beautiful words and soft images how your world is in turmoil, but it feels like it will be okay. Somehow, someday, it’ll pass. A lot of it is the reminder that somehow, someday, this has already happened. You’re not the first. You’re not alone. Even if in that moment, it feels like no one who has existed in the past or exists now or will exist someday will feel the way you feel: between jumping up and down at the opportunities and realising that this is it, this is it now and you don’t have to do anything.

Days melt together between the trees outside the apartment and the paved walkways of the campus, the same buildings you see every day. This is your life now. This is okay. And yet it feels like you should be doing more. Writing more words, typing away furiously on the keyboard and scribbling lyrics on the back of your notebook. Walking a little more, eating a little better. It feels like you’re reaching for the stars already, you should be among them, but on your tiptoes, they are just out of reach.

You look at others like you can measure your own strength by their achievements. Like the length of their hair and the way their clothes fit is the universal mould you’re going to adjust yourself to. But maybe they’re brick and you’re something else, like a brownstone wouldn’t be a brownstone without its brown stones, right. Maybe you’re a clay, or a wood. Or maybe you’re not a foundation at all, maybe you can’t be built with, but does that make you less? You work with what you have. Maybe it’s Lego pieces and a stick, but spells won’t be cast overnight. Magic has intent; you have to want to be.

A slower pace is no standstill, but it can be. That’s okay. It’s okay to not be moving when you need to make sure you, in your heart soul mind whatever, are content. Even if you are not, being okay is not all there is to this world. Sometimes your brain is a whirlwind and you’re just running because you don’t know how to stop.

I’m going to make my own magic. Even if it is just being kinder to myself.

title from Ada Limón’s Instructions on Not Giving Up
One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.