May 27. 12:22 PM.
A Tuesday that splits the week like a blade through fabric.
And then it arrives—
The day you feel like a blood eagle.
Not torn, not destroyed.
But opened.
Ritualistically.
After a therapy session that felt like a scalpel through fog—
healing and deductively sharp.
You walk, steady and strange, toward the train
to Hafencity. Two appointments.
Two anchors for this drifting vessel.
The northern wind meets you head-on.
Old companion.
Old adversary.
On the grass: a limping raven,
his wing dragging like your breath.
Another screeches wildly above,
lashes out at the birch branches,
dives near your skull like a dark question,
lands on a high twig, pecks at it furiously.
What is this raven broadcast trying to tell me?
Between my shoulder blades, pain.
The kind that makes sense.
Bearable.
But laced with uncertainty. Fragility.
I pause.
I listen.
I stretch my back gently on the train,
twist and breathe.
It works—for a while.
Above Hafencity, a melancholic grey lingers.
It feels, strangely, like home.
The blade in my spine throbs again.
I switch my backpack to my chest, like armor.
What is today?
Will the pain grow?
Will I open?
What is my focus?
What is the invitation, here, in the between?
Then the first appointment.
Electric.
Grounding.
Something lights up inside me—
a return of direction,
clarity flowing in.
So much energy,
so much truth.
I remember my plan.
I want to sit down and work deeply.
I can.
And just as I’m about to shift again—
the second appointment is canceled.
13:17 for 14:30.
Short notice.
But strangely... not disappointing.
It feels like punctuation.
Like permission.
Back to focus.
Back to the spine of the day.
Back to what matters.