I've been incubating. My life has been changing. My world is strange and new.
I am living in the same home, the longest I've stayed stationed in the last two years. I still have my two pets and four plants, and that aspect of my life is stable. Which, as mentioned, is new to me. Stability is new.
Writing a poem, I once used "settling" synonymously "stable"; it is strange for me to crave order. I am chaotic-good, and am used to having every moment of my day bathed in worry and ambiguity. I've gotten quite good at creating those fears all on my own, but as my life finds equilibrium, so do my nerves.
I'm happy. Still sad as these gray days wash over me, converting whatever energy for art I had into the need for sleep. That's the next journey to conquer. But as far as work goes, I really am happy. I am getting paid to write. I am trusted and respected. I have so much I get to learn, and also am confided in for what I already know. I feel like I am enough. It is a dream.
It's been hard finding those words. I can't admit that things are good. Perhaps from superstition, perhaps from fear of being wrong; but that doesn't make it any less true.
Right now, in this moment, things are very good.
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