I like to write in the sky.
Something shifts as we fly up above.
People live in the cracks of our imagination
—the pieces we allow others to live in,
only spaces we can see,
only in the in-between parts of the web created.
Translucent but intricate,
impossible to see all the lines.
Better with the sun behind it.
The spaces in between.
silence hugs our secrets.
The web is stronger than we know.
Writing fragile as a reminder.
But there also lives another truth.
What do we share?
What do we allow others to see?
The cracks that exist—
proof of our very existence.
The Japanese practice of kintsugi:
gold filling the spaces in between.
the broken parts are beautiful.
Growth brings something better than before.
In the gold, we can see again.
There is a curated way to move,
a routine to keep us the same.
Some days, analogies of coffee in bed.
Others, a rush—blurred.
Or walking slowly, noticing novelty,
because we can.
The plane taking off—
anticipatory anxiety of our beginnings,
until we are at a cruising altitude again.
To hide and seek the parts of us that still hurt.
Our mistakes.
When we fail.
Failing is proof we tried.
But those unique parts—
we are not supposed to be the same.
The rare pieces that exist—
those make us—us.
We don’t need a cookie-cutter existence.
Monotonous.
Repetitive.
Across the assembly lines.
We need a color outside the lines one.
Sometimes, you cannot see it all
until you are up above or far away.
Closer to the light.
In the air, there is nothing left to do but surrender.
Ingenuity lives in what we thought were mistakes.
From where we began—
writing in our sky,
still remembering:
we are inside of the gold.
We are already golden.
Easier to remember
when we believe we already know how to fly
—and that we will land again.
