I am here.
I exist right now, in this place.
My hand is guiding my pen across this paper.
This ink is spreading, seeping into the pores of the yellow cellulose, forever staining it in squiggles and slashes.
I am here, and the time is now.
I have a kettle on the stove, fresh-ground coffee in the press, and a loaf of bread cooking in the over.
The sun is rising. My brain is waking up, too.
Here I am, in this chair, with this pen, making these words.
Soon enough, the kettle will whistle its shrill song.
Soon enough, my mouth will pucker and sip at the morning’s first swallow of warm, bitter coffee.
Soon enough, all the other things will happen today, tomorrow, next week.
But for right now, this moment, my left elbow rests firmly on the kitchen table, supporting my forearm, my hand, my head, my thoughts.
For right now, the small of my back has a tiny ache from a deep night’s sleep.
For right now, a block of butter, softening in the morning’s warmth, keeps me company as I hold off all those other things and just exist.