5:40 a.m. The screen glows before I do. Ten minutes awake, already hunched like a gargoyle, my cat watching me with the kind of disappointed patience that only animals can muster. I stepped past him. Cold floors, groggy head, no water in me yet. And Slack, of all things, was my first embrace of the day.
A colleague's mother collapsed yesterday, her heart breaking in the plainest way hearts can. The thought lodges itself in my chest: I could die today. And what a stupid scene it would be. Posture like a crumpled crow, eyes strained on digital chatter, the sun not even up yet.
I tell myself this is for purpose. To help animals, to save a few lives that are not mine. But is that a reason to forfeit my own? As if skipping the moment somehow makes me more useful. If disorientation is the theme, then I am playing it well. Because movement without bearings is not progress, it is just a longer walk back.
What is disorientation, anyway, but forgetting to look at the signs? My signs: dry mouth, stiff neck, heart thudding like it does not trust me. All pointing at something simple: slow down. Drink water. Stretch. Let the cat climb into my lap. That would be a better obituary than this posture.
Still, I write it here, because even a misstep feels romantic when you know the curtain could fall today.