Outside, the rain hasn’t let up
for a single moment.
All morning, I’ve been listening
to the pattering and the spray
kicked up by passing motorists.
I’ve yet to turn my lamp on
and I’m imagining everything 
as grey.

But not grey in a bad way;
more like a phase way,
a stepping stone way
toward brighter light or darker night.
Each have their respective beauties
and each carries its unique dangers.
What matters
is the direction we are going.

Who am I going to be in a week
when the words slow down
and daily routines change back?
When the literary journey I’ve embarked on
dares me to put myself into practice?
When it’s time to show courage,
to exude agency over life?
To live and love?

Outside, rain remains relentless.
It’s been a long, long time
since I let myself stay in bed like this.
Almost like I’m sleeping with myself;
content, if still a little incomplete.
Allowing the day to become whatever it will
while I rest and recuperate and prepare myself
for whatever life has in store for me next.