Palimpsest

A lace of life keeps catching onto the fabric of my every day. It feels so ephemeral, but at the same time so visceral. I was in bed one day, amidst all the chaos of January, when a bubbling feeling surfaced; an inherent inkling that everything was going to be so damningly alright - no, not even alright, but good. It was a swelling sense that somewhere down the line, the railway path had been paved gleamingly with gold, that my future may glide on it more smoothly.

Then there are the other waves. Smaller, but more intermittent. Ones that have occurred when I’m scrolling through certain items on my phone screen, or be wandering around London’s archetypal streets, or hearing a tune on tiktok. I’d be washed with an impression of an ambiance - warm, moody lights, soft silk, plush cream carpets, perfumes, crystals sparkling softly, and a heady sense of serenity and grace. All these sensations play so lightly, whisperingly, nowhere near the reality in which I’d felt them, yet so confidently true. 

Undoubtedly, the future is calling. I am acutely aware that there is an impending sense of a whole world waiting to roar open, come what may; but at present I’m still here fiddling with the lock and keys, fidgeting in my gloves, yearning, needing to unlock my own internal caskets before I embrace anew. There are universal hints of letting go, of releasing, of cleansing, and somehow as usual I am verged on indecision, figuring whether to fine tune my actions to the frequencies of my head or my heart.

In the background, the melody is already playing.