the deep absence of clangor and clatter that fills this space now, it feels less of a void and more like a thrumming current, just underneath my skin, like the fizz of a fresh kombucha brew that hasn't quite settled into its flavor yet, an electric sort of restlessness that sometimes makes my jaw ache with unspoken variations of who i could be, of what i am doing... and it’s not the fight anymore, not the old mental war, but this wild open possibility that is sometimes more disorienting than the battle ever was, like walking on shifting sands where the ground never truly locks into place, and maybe portland really is next or maybe somewhere else entirely, maybe i’ll dye my hair another color just to see if that fits this skin a little better, this itch to change, to try on, to discard... it’s not terror now, but a strange, expansive kind of vertigo.