the way the clay still clings to my fingertips even after i scrub them clean, a ghost of its texture, feels like that’s how everything is lately, like every version of myself i try on leaves a tiny residue that I carry, and this new deep happiness about a hobby, this pure unadulterated pleasure in turning something on a wheel, it also carries this weird undertow of panic, a slight tremor in the chest that whispers, what does this MEAN then, what will this new fixation ask me to let go of next, how many more times will i have to explain to my parents that no, the stable job isn't coming back and yes, i'm moving again, maybe portland next for a bit, just to see what fits, or maybe nothing ever really fits and that's the whole point, the settling in my body that i talked about isn't an end point, it's just a deeper understanding of the internal shifts, like the internal volume got turned down enough that the constant bubbling of the kombucha I'm always drinking or the frantic thoughts aren't a scream but a gentle HUM, and the thought isn't to stop it but to lean into the rhythm of perpetual transformation.