April 27th begins
down the stairs,
all the way long,
each step a small surrender,
each landing a brief negotiation
between gravity and will.
It is a descent
that feels older than you,
a movement inherited
from every fall
you’ve ever survived.
But the day does not stay low.
It never does.
Because the moment
your feet touch the bottom,
April 27th turns sharply
and demands the opposite:
up the hill,
without a stop,
without a pause,
without the mercy
of catching your breath.
The climb is relentless,
a slope carved from stubbornness,
a path that insists
you keep going
even when your legs
argue otherwise.
And then,
as if the descent
and the ascent
were only warm‑ups,
the day throws you
along the highway,
a long, straight ribbon
of urgency,
stretching forward
as if tomorrow
were a rumor
no one believes in anymore.
You move fast,
faster than thought,
faster than regret,
faster than the questions
that usually slow you down.
April 27th is momentum.
Pure, unfiltered momentum.
Down the stairs
into memory.
Up the hill
into effort.
Along the highway
into whatever comes next.
It is a day that refuses
to let you stand still,
a day that believes
movement is the only truth
worth trusting.
And by the time it ends,
you realize:
you have traveled
farther inside yourself
than any map
could ever show.
