Lowdown.

0:00

It's dark. And it's been dark for a long time. It's not terrifying, just heavy. I've grown used to the shape of the shadows, the weight of stillness, but lately, something in me has shifted, and I'm tired. Not broken.Not hopeless. I'm just tired of holding it all so tightly. I'm tired of pretending that waiting is the same thing as preparing. At some point, it stops being fearful and starts being resistant. That's the truth most of us don't say out loud: 

Change isn't the monster; resistance is.

The slow, quiet kind that lives inside our thoughts. It is the kind that disguises itself as logic, caution, and waiting for "just a little longer." It is the kind of courage that feels like certainty." You're not ready yet. Just a little more time. Just a bit of control." That patient and convincing voice sounds like reason, even love. But it's not. It's a delay dressed in a comforting voice. There are so many voices; they all want to protect me, and I am making so much space for them to stay.

"What parts of myself are buried to let them stay? 

The louder ones, the ones that ask too many questions, challenge the rules and want more than quiet survival. The parts that speak before thinking, that feel before filtering. The parts that dare to want something different, something uncertain. I've silenced them for the sake of peace, for the comfort of not disrupting things. I've made room for other people's comfort and logic. I was patient, considerate, and wise. But sometimes, I wonder if I was folding myself smaller and smaller so everyone else could stretch out.

It's almost 5 a.m., and everything feels distant and right at my fingertips. The nearest thing to me is a Campari bottle, and I'm about to make a Negroni. I saw her silhouette against that orange light; why is it so orange? I don't have the answers, and I don't need to. I change slowly while thinking, fearing, or trying to convince myself to stay still. I don't have to be fearless. I may need to move. But not yet.

"Now, I am low, lowdown, and I think there's something quietly fascinating about being there."

It's not comfortable, but it's honest. And maybe honesty is where things begin again, not with clarity or confidence, but with a soft admission:

I don't know, but I'm still here.