celebrate the mediocrity, the routine, the mundane. remember all those days you wished that things were different, then when you hoped they’d stay the same. remember when you prayed before you knew what it meant? when it felt more like wishing and you begged to forget. celebrate the mediocrity, the warmth in your hands. the fingers fully functional, not small and clammy fists. your heartbeat, in a regular rhythm. no longer a desperate drum. now you feel protected, now you feel defended. but this steadiness, it suffocates, claustrophobic you’ve become. the air is stale, movement is subtle. there isn’t a reason to run, this is the life you were meant to want. but where is the adrenaline? where is the rush? the anxious feat of beating death and again and again and again. the adequacy of having a life: the loss of meaning. waiting for the next storm to come, a wait in glee. but don’t forget to celebrate this exact mediocrity.