It’s been a while since I wrote something. Where should I start?

The space between “wanting to write” and “knowing what to write” is tender—but it’s also fertile.

That’s where the voice starts to emerge.
There is always a question that is trapped in my mind,
a quiet echo bouncing against the walls of thoughts,

What is staying in the present?

Is it a breath held steady between the past and the future?
or the moment stretched between the lightning and the thunder,
if we call that time;
the subtle fourth dimension?
Or am I simply here
without the weights of yesterday’s shadows
and the pull of tomorrow’s dream
Just being. Grounded in the Earth’s gravity?
Burning in the Sun’s hostility,
Or drifting in the Moon’s gravity?