Some days I find my thoughts wandering under the pale glow of the sunlit desk, chasing echoes of what was meant and what might still be. The faint whisperings of a dream mentioned in passing — an idea dangling between reality and the yet-to-be-formed plans.
Across the infinitesimal boundary of waking hours, I sketch tiny charts. Maps of intention sketched hurriedly in the margins of a busy life. To the untrained eye, they are doodles. To me, they are constellations of potential, marking spots in the night sky of my memory, tracing outlines of directions yet explored.
These fleeting patterns are easier to chart than to follow. Each line drawn is a promise. Each loop, an uncertain reflection of courage to reinterpret what “normal” requires. Yet they speak volumes, these maps; volumes we laugh at, with reluctant smiles beneath clouds woven closely into sky's quiet narrative.