finished a book and just... nothing. isn't there supposed to be something? a shift, a new perspective, a changed life but the blank page after the story feels like me, the dry scratch of my eyes against the dark the only thing i can feel and like that's supposed to be ENOUGH, just this, just here, but what if it isn't what if i need the next book and the next one after that and then the next whole life of stories to not feel like a body just sitting here, in brooklyn, the bodega light like a steady pulse in the dark. The wanting never stops; it just shape-shifts. Used to be promotions, raises, anything to prove I was worthy, and now it's... inner peace? Still chasing, still measuring, still terrified of the quiet.