Like the Universe is throwing crumbs your way, and you’re supposed to act grateful, smiling through your teeth while you sit there, starving for something real.
It’s infuriating. Humiliating, even. To look at the scraps and pretend they’re enough.
And when it feels like conditions have to be perfect—no, not even perfect, just good—no, scratch that—at least neutral—or maybe just not like this (do you see how the goalpost keeps moving?)—it’s maddening. Everything about it feels unfair. As if the world conspires to tie your hands behind your back and still expects you to move forward.
Hmmm...
Total freedom, the kind where you can do anything, feels just as unbearable as confinement. Like staring into the abyss with no railings, no walls, no guide—just endless space, and nowhere to start.
And still, somehow, you’ve got everything you need to take the next step.
Not a leap, not a bound. Just… a step. The tiniest one imaginable.
It’s not inspiring. It doesn’t feel like triumph. It feels small. Insultingly small.
But there it is.
And maybe—if you squint—you can see it for what it really is: a spark of direction. Not enough to light the whole path, but just enough to show the edge of the next stone to step on.
Knowing where you can’t go clears the way to see what’s left. And sometimes, what’s left is nothing more than a particle, a microscopic speck of possibility. A thread of light so fragile you can barely see it. A path so narrow it feels like it might vanish the moment you try to take it.
But it’s there.
It’s always been there, waiting for you to notice it. And when you do—when you finally take that first, defiant step—you’ll see it wasn’t just one thread at all.
It was a whole web.
