We shift uncertainly as we stand, shouldering the things we carry. Sometimes a small bag, sometimes a backpack, sometimes the weight of the world, we schlep our past traumas and slights around like modern Atlases, bent under the weight and opining loudly about what very precious people we are and how no one has it as hard as we do.
And what of joy? Or freedom? Of having the space in which to move in the first place? How many rainbows do we miss because we are staring at the gutter?
Do we carry our joys? Or are we carried by them? Do we need to proclaim them loudly, or is it better to cup them in your hands, gaining warmth from the light in the silence of your sacred spaces? What does displaying the things we carry gain us, beyond fleeting seconds of digital applause and a brief shot of serotonin?
Can we curate the things we carry? Can we shift the contents to make the weight lighter? Or are we too frightened to release the trauma that so defines us? Who are we without out burdens?
How much of what we carry defines us, and how much to we define it?