Weather you never picked

Rain finding the back of your collar. One hand jammed up a sleeve, the other one busy. Out by the trash cans at a birthday party, hearing the laughter through the wall. How much weather have you stood in for a cigarette? You weren't out there for the air. You were on an errand you didn't assign.

The cigarette shrank the whole sky down to the size of a doorway. Same door. Same street. Same clouds overhead. Only the meaning got stolen, and meaning is the cheapest thing in the world to take back. Nothing out there needs fixing or buying. You don't have to wait for a better season. The street is still the street. You're the part that changed.

The first few walks may feel flat, like you forgot why you came out. That's a habit checking for its wages. Go anyway, with nothing waiting at the finish. Each time the link thins a little. Then one day you'll catch yourself lingering just because it's nice out. God put the whole world out there and never charged admission.

Take ten minutes today with no reason attached. No errand, no call, no step count. Pick a direction and turn back whenever you like. Look up at something for longer than feels normal. Nobody sent you, and you get to say so. I'm out here because I want to be.