Surrender

Leaving. Am I ghost now? I think about the last time I felt the earth beneath me. Not the ground, The Earth. The weight of it. The way it said: You belong here. You are of this. Now there's only the pull of something else. Vast and cold and patient, waiting for me to stop resisting. In surrendering, the hardest part isn't letting go. It's the moment after when your fingers uncurl and you realize there's nothing left to drop, nothing left to anchor you to the version of yourself you spent years building. And still, you continue through. I am less now than I was. And somehow, impossibly, I am also more. More space, more silence, more of the terrifying openness that comes when you stop pretending you were ever in control. The body remembers everything. But what happens when the body itself becomes a memory, when you are no longer made of bones and breath, but of the ghost of bones, the echo of breath. I don't know where I'm going. I don't think there is a where. Just this endless unbecoming, unraveling, this soft and irreversible surrender to whatever comes after certainty ends.