May there be an empty space in my hand, where every night a bottle – or some other means to an end – used to be.
An interstitial space between the speck of matter that is me, and the net of endless galaxies, as a minnow to a whale.
Of course the wind will still blow from the north, and I’ll still be listening to the broken record of myself,
but maybe a sound like running water will become loud enough to drown out my thoughts, helping me pay less attention to their static.
Maybe a sound like meat and vegetables frying in a pan will help untangle the knot of my mind’s dialogue, clothe my hearing in the fine silk cloth of meditation.
Helping me to accommodate change, to look willingly at truth with clarity of vision.
To encourage, if only for a moment, a little acceptance.