Time Traveller

It’s strange.

Some days I feel weightless, certain of where I’m going, cheekily proud of what I’ve built. Blessings counted, plans mapped, the world sitting neatly in my hands.

Other days I feel pulled under by the weight of continuity, the demand to make every space in between count. The memory of waiting for her home cooked meal, the two of us bickering over nothing. Did we know how finite those evenings were?

I slip between futures and the past, between hope and countdowns, trying not to hold joy too tightly, wary of the old instinct to ruin what feels too exhilarating.

But later, when I’m tucked into my sheets, pants rolled down just right with no creases, drifting into a world older than this one while Frank Sinatra and Matt Maltese play softly in the background, the noise settles.

In that narrow equilibrium between lightness and weight, I find myself thinking, with no irony at all, what a wonderful world.