Before I turn 30

Before I turned 30, I learned to slow time. I did this by doing. From a long stale stiffness, I creaked into motion, oiling my rusty joints with new landscape, new language. I cracked open the vacuum seal and let new air and spores flood in. I rusted and oxidised, fermented, grew mould, weathered. I reimagined the thrills I had dreamed for myself and gifted myself new ones. I put my body in the world and my heart on the line. I gave myself a work out. I ran on empty. I refuelled. I played go fetch with my curiosities. I stopped hiding and played seek. I breathed and bred patience. I trudged, I shrugged. I stopped trying to cohere and made elastic my identity. I had thought I'd have to be my own anchor. I discovered that I was in fact my own sea.