Scorching or soaring.

She told me to slow down. threatened to mimic generational gaps. a constant nag like a telemarketer late at night.

I need a pace maker to regulate my heart. Every surge of desire that propelling me forward is balanced by the gravity of fear. The what ifs pile in the corner. A cycle of laundry cleansed and soiled.

Yet these days are mostly uplifting as the thermals sneak through the gap and in to the town. I rise with it. Earlier each morning. Scorching and soaring until the last of the light.