Tightening the Reins

It’s strange how you learn to fix things as you go, patching up the cracks with whatever’s lying around. Life doesn’t come with a manual—it’s all trial and error. So you tighten the reins, not out of control, but out of necessity. A frayed strap here, a loose buckle there—you pull everything together with such craft that it almost looks deliberate. Almost.

Sometimes, the answer isn’t elegant. It’s quick, messy, and held together by sheer willpower. A solution found on the fly, stitched together at the last second. It’s not perfect, but it works. And in the silence of those improvised moments, the world slows down just enough for you to catch your breath.

The shutters close with a heavy thud, blocking out the noise of the world outside. For a moment, it’s just you. No voices, no distractions. Just the muffled hum of your own thoughts. And in that solitude, you find a strange kind of companionship—not with people, but with the quiet itself.

There’s no one to hold, no one to lean on, so you grip the pillow tighter. It’s funny how something so soft can feel like an anchor, grounding you when everything else feels weightless and uncertain. You hug it like it’s the only thing keeping you afloat, pressing your face into its fabric as if the pressure could ease the ache inside.

And then, there’s that flicker of hope—the makeshift solutions, the quick fixes that somehow keep the pieces together. They remind you that you’re still in this, still fighting, still solving. Even when the reins dig into your hands, leaving marks, you keep pulling. Even when the shutters block out the light, you find your way in the dark.

Because you’ve learned to make it work. To take whatever life throws at you, twist it, bend it, reshape it into something you can carry. It might not be perfect, but it’s yours.

And that’s enough.