Three Rooms, No Reservation

Your week booked itself. You just live here.

Your system has three rooms booked this week and you didn’t approve any of them.

First one has a conversation that keeps getting softer every draft. Leave it.

Second is fog. Beautiful, expensive fog that whispers “trust the process” while your blood sugar quietly crashes. Somewhere mid-week your system will announce: “I don’t know if I’m exhausted, intuitive, brilliant, in danger, or just need soup.” Soup first. Always soup first. The fog builds cathedrals out of tiredness and crime reports out of one awkward text. Your body does the sorting before the interpretation committee arrives.

Your belly already has the answer. Your ribs are holding a decision that only needs a deadline and one less apology.

Third room: speed. Every idea from the last three months shows up at once like 17 clever birds in a kitchen. Beautiful. Potentially catastrophic. Do not open five fronts. Open one drawer. Close it properly.

One feeling gets a container. One price stays. One sentence gets shorter. One “no” that sounds like a door closing on time.

One palm on lower belly. Other on side ribs. Feet flat. In for four. Hold one. Out through mouth for six, slow. Six rounds. Each exhale, one word: Body. Food. Ribs. One. Enough. Now.

Belly: soup, water, warmth, or pause? Ribs: which decision needs a deadline, not another apology? Drawer: which one thing opens and closes today?

“First belly. Then ribs. Then one drawer.”

FOR BODIES DONE PRETENDING