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I am still here, though already gone. The room holds my outline. The air remembers my breath. Thought dissolves me by degrees. Until my feet touch the ground, I am only the idea of myself. — You taught me warmth as obedience, a wage, a lock that turned. Comfort became the softest form of control. I mistook sedation for peace. Now I leave the padded cage, the hum of systems that cradle and dull. — I carry little more than a pulse and a plane ticket into another alphabet. I do not yet speak the words for hunger or belonging. I issue no accords until I’ve lived the weather. — My love, freedom without care is cruelty. I carry you like a compass inside my ribcage — your voice the still point where my chaos steadies. If I vanish, it will be responsibly. — Ten degrees cooler. The air wakes me. Warsaw is gray and vast and listening. I breathe — and thought becomes weight. I am tangible again, a soul made of temperature and concrete. — I have begun. What remains is not an answer, but a presence. I do not seek comfort, only balance — the pulse between motion and stillness, between freedom and care. In this colder air, I begin.
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Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 3:49 AM UTC
Until My Feet Touch the Ground
I am still here, though already gone. The room holds my outline. The air remembers my breath. Thought dissolves me by degrees. Until my feet touch the ground, I am only the idea of myself. — You taught me warmth as obedience, a wage, a lock that turned. Comfort became the softest form of control. I mistook sedation for peace. Now I leave the padded cage, the hum of systems that cradle and dull. — I carry little more than a pulse and a plane ticket into another alphabet. I do not yet speak the words for hunger or belonging. I issue no accords until I’ve lived the weather. — My love, freedom without care is cruelty. I carry you like a compass inside my ribcage — your voice the still point where my chaos steadies. If I vanish, it will be responsibly. — Ten degrees cooler. The air wakes me. Warsaw is gray and vast and listening. I breathe — and thought becomes weight. I am tangible again, a soul made of temperature and concrete. — I have begun. What remains is not an answer, but a presence. I do not seek comfort, only balance — the pulse between motion and stillness, between freedom and care. In this colder air, I begin.
badwords
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badwords
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 3:49 AM UTC
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