Back to square one
I lace my shoes the same way every day,
tight enough to hold me together,
loose enough to pretend I can still move
forward
The field hasn’t changed.
The lines are still straight,
the goals still standing,
but something inside me
keeps shifting out of place.
I fix one mistake
like patching a crack in glass
and another splinters open
before I can even breathe.
Back to the beginning.
Back to learning what I already learned.
Back to asking, why is this still hard?
I show up.
Again, and again, and again.
Early mornings, tired legs,
muscle memory that feels like it forgot me.
I give time like it owes me something back,
but it just passes, quiet and unchanged.
And then there are the others
ghost of effort, barely present
who step in like nothing left them.
They move like the spark chose them,
like it never flickered,
like it never questioned staying.
I watch,
and I wonder what I’m missing.
What price of me didn’t grow
when everything else did.
Because now,
even the simplest things
the things I used to do without thinking
feel heavy in my hands,
like im trying to remember
how to be someone I used to be.
And the worst part isn’t failing.
It’s the quiet thought creeping in after:
What if this is just who I am now?
A loop of almost,
a cycle of trying,
a spark that keeps dimming
no matter how hard I breathe into it.
Still, I stand here.
Still, I lace my shoes.
Not because it feels good,
but because something,
somewhere deep and stubborn,
hasn’t gone out just yet.
A