I am rediscovering time

as if it were made just for me,

tailor-made, so to speak,

a unit of existence that I can stretch and distribute however I like,

rediscovering the beauty of just being,

without pressure to achieve

            everything,

            anything,

all the time,

all at once,

            I am spacing out space

without feeling guilty for it,

drawing out my mornings, reading in bed, drinking coffee,

            my evenings, cooking for friends and drinking wine with them,

            my Sundays, writing, cycling, baking loaves of banana bread, all of which I’ll get to share in time,

learning to ignore the push messages that have been pushing their way into the inbox of my brain all day, every day,

push, push, push

while I got compressed and compromised,

pushed inwards so far that my organs started re-arranging themselves and my breath became shallow

            and the benign-gazed women in my dreams cried for me to

            push, push, push

            finally to deliver my anxiety, laboriously letting it go and setting it free,

            letting it live and die alongside me, a hungry child feeding off my inadequacies and fears, yet             better to have it out than in until it grows too big for me to carry

            underneath my collarbones,

now I am not dreaming of benign-gazed women anymore,

only of myself

I am not dreaming about my past, nor my future

or maybe I do, but less insistently, less longingly, instead more intently inhabiting the space that is this very moment,

time to ponder my feelings, pandering to them; how am I? how am I? how am I?

            am I becoming the person I want to be?

all the while knowing that the universe is abundant and that I will have plenty

of time,

and everything else.