The first time it feels almost too easy, I don’t trust it.
Not because something is wrong.
But because something isn’t.
We wake up.
Coffee.
Eleanor throws oatmeal.
Zara leaves for her studio rotation in New York with a kiss on Eleanor’s head and a distracted “Text me later.”
Marcus reviews foundation updates.
I finish lecture prep.
No edge.
No crack.
No bracing.
And that’s when the thought creeps in:
What if this is it?
What if this is the part of life that isn’t dramatic?
What if this is the middle?
And I realize something dangerous.
I don’t know how to exist in the middle without trying to push it somewhere else.
The rebellion doesn’t look loud.
It looks like restlessness.
I accept an invitation to speak at a symposium in Geneva.
It’s not necessary.
It’s not aligned
