Where the Horizon Shifts

Sometimes the change starts far beneath the surface — a bone‑deep shift I feel before the storm ever shows its shape.

Not knowing, not having answers — that’s like an unforboding silence, a rare humm from within. I can feel all of the possibilities gnawing at my focus like a predator cleaning the carcass from last night’s kill. With every precious moment taking a little more of my peace… every tear removing a bit more flesh, more hope… leaving behind the bones, the questions… a shell of wanting more. And the irrationality of what I could do, or could have instead, drags me across barren plains, waiting for an answer that will tell me whether to rebuild… or move on with the emptiness still echoing inside, wondering which way to turn. And I stand there in the dust, knowing the choice is no longer mine. The plains themselves seem to hold their breath, as if the wind is the one deciding which direction will open and which will close. All I can do is wait for the ground beneath me to shift, for the horizon to reveal which path will take me in… and which one will let me go. As the dust settles around me, and the view in front of me clears, a strange clarity crawls over my skin as the realization sets in — this was never about the predator or the prey. It’s the moment I find myself staring into the eye of the storm, feeling the unsettling calm it carries, knowing I’m still inside it even as I begin to see its shape… and in that eerie calm, its magnitude becomes impossible to ignore — a truth so large it presses against my ribs from the inside, a pressure so profound only a slow release could keep me from combusting. And still, I resist. I resist letting go of this idea, this possibility, because the alternative isn’t just another path; it’s a long, unforgiving road that demands a breaking‑open I’m not ready to face again. And somewhere beyond the storm’s eye, I can feel the horizon tightening — time folding in on itself, the sky narrowing into a smaller and smaller window, reminding me that the seasons don’t wait just because I’m not ready to endure their storms. And somewhere in that turning of seasons, an echo comes back to me — soft, steady, insisting that even storms make room for what’s meant to grow.