the way the rough fiber twine bit into my fingers, shaping that macrame thing, it was supposed to be just a passing distraction, another three-week fling like the pottery before it and the painting before that, but then the hours just melted and my whole body just HUMMED with it, this unexpected rush that felt so utterly right that it made my gut clench with a terrifying understanding, like another piece of the previous version of me just dissolved, just peeled away, and the dizziness wasn't from looking down from any great height but from looking around at how much space there is now, so much room to just be whatever this current flicker insists I am, and who is that anyway, and what if this one is just another costume too, but what if it's not, what if this is the way to actually SETTLE into something that feels like truth, a truth that parents would NEVER understand after quitting the stable job and changing cities every few months, and the kombucha bottle on the table, it’s not mocking me this time, it just sits there, its fizz a mirror to the unsettled, yet vibrant, hum inside.