it's terrifying how easily I can still pull out that particular costume, the one I thought I’d burned completely, the me who knew all the right answers, or at least how to pretend to, especially when my dad asks about ‘the pottery thing’ again, and there’s this immediate tightening in my throat, this urge to smooth over the edges, to make my life make sense to him even though it barely makes sense to ME in its most beautiful moments, and for a second, my own voice even feels foreign in my ears as it tries to justify, tries to make it sound like a career, a ‘plan,’ instead of just… this feeling, this deep thrum that started in my fingertips with the clay and has since spread through my whole being, this absolute bareness of just existing that used to scare the absolute hell out of me, this becoming that has no end and no name, and then I feel the restlessness returning, a familiar flicker beneath my skin, almost an itch to pack a bag and head for Portland just to prove I can still upend everything, just to shake off the residue of that performing self, that feeling of being tethered to a version of myself that doesn’t quite fit anymore, that I don't want to fit, because this sensation of peace, of things simply aligning, it still feels so much like a trick, like I haven’t earned it, but then a deeper part of me, the part that finally knows what it feels like for the colors on a canvas to click, or for the kombucha to hit just right, remembers that the only real trick is believing I have to explain it all away.