I don’t know what to say, but my mind is always racing.
Pacing around but bound to five hundred-fifty square feet.
Even the Golden State only sees cloudy days ahead.
I used to complain about not having enough time, but too much time isn’t good either.
I don’t know how to get the words out anymore, but the ink is still spilling.
Forty days, and each descender hangs heavier with anxiety.
It’s hard to find calm in the chaos when her presence silently lingers.
Coming out to play to strain even the smallest interactions;
Her timing is impeccable.
Forty days and I now know a new neighborhood like the back of my hand.
Pacing around and bound to the same grid of houses and restless backyard dogs.
Forty days and my faulty optimism has leveled down
A new normal that may never be fully adjustable.
Time is slowing down, but my mind is always racing.
Forty-one days and dawn greets me again through light streaked floors.
A small daily reminder that my mind will become clear again.
