A friend describes their year.
Every sentence has weight. A wall being built.
You nod along and feel something twist.
Your version doesn't sound like that.
It sounds like weather.
You've called it spontaneity.
But spontaneity moves toward something.
This just reacts to whatever shows up.
The uncomfortable part isn't the lack of a plan.
It's realising you've been pretending that was the plan.
A design isn't a cage. It's a spine.
Nothing stands upright without one.
