There’s a hole in my head that’s more like a valley. It’s been there as long as I’ve existed, and for decades I thought everyone had it.
But it is my valley and mine alone.
I remember years watching others walk fleet-footed where I teetered at the edge. I began building my own way across. It’s like a web—delicate lines of silk drawn from one side of my valley to the other, catching light and dew and unsuspecting insects.
Where other people walk on solid earth, kicking numbers around like they’re pinecones, I have a trampoline of symbols and rainbows caught in water drops.
This tapestry of pathways gets me where I need to be.