There’s a whole universe inside my belly button,
a silent echo chamber for fleeting thoughts.
I press my finger to its edges,
feel where everything begins or ends.
This is what happens when Friday dissolves,
when the edge of task lists blur,
when stillness spreads wider than ambition,
draping itself over my shoulders like a quilt.
If I stay here too long, sinking inward,
the world will tilt unnoticed around me.
I’ll miss the blue heron slicing sky,
the sound of fresh bread cracking open.
There’s danger in letting questions turn inward:
\"Am I enough?\" buzzes louder than bees.
\"Did I forget something?\" echoes too sharply.
\"Why does everything always come back to me?\"
So I get up, feet heavy but resolute,
plan something simple––coffee, a walk,
shifting the axis to some place beyond
this small gravity of my navel.
Because life is more than circling thoughts,
it’s laughter spilling in messy directions,
it’s hands reaching for someone else,
and it’s the tomorrow I nearly forgot.