Very rarely do I tear pages in my notebook, but tonight I feel that it’s worth it. Friday night - business as usual - but inside we are all riding bicycles in private storms, trying to find shelter amidst flashes of lights, loud claps, and sharp liquid. Chasing the sunlight. Some ride harder, some stand still, as wet drops stain light greys to black.
We fall into old habits, comfort zones. To things we think come natural in times of instability. We hold on to hope believed to be planted firmly deep beneath the ground as winds whip the hair into our already stinging eyes we don’t dare to close.
