If you’ve never been on pause, never succumbed to the anguish of being—or least feeling stuck in place, then this poem will make no sense to you. Forward movement is painful to start. There is an almost unmanageable panic that shoved you backwards into stillness. Into stillbirth.
But move we must. Dreams don’t have deadlines, but life does. Which means we must move when it is our time, painful numble limbs and all.