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Half-Saved Feeling

I woke up with a half saved feeling, Like a draft that never hit “send.” I woke up with a half saved feeling, like a message caught between the ceiling and the floor of some idea that’s still revealing what it meant to be before it started healing. And every time I breathe, the moment keeps repealing, peeling back the layers of the thought I’m still unsealing, showing me the shape beneath the shape that keeps concealing how the draft becomes the doorway to the deeper kind of dealing. It loops again — the static hum is kneeling at the edge of what I know, and what I know is still annealing, cooling into form while the formless keeps appealing, calling me to wander through the cycles I’m re‑feeling. The dream resets — the edges keep congealing, but the center stays the same, like a compass never reeling, like the purpose underneath is the anchor I’m revealing, and the rest is just the echo of the echo I’m distilling. So I walk the line between the drifting and the real thing, letting every version of the version keep instilling that the half saved thought is a doorway worth fulfilling, and the static in the loop is the spark that keeps me willing. And when the cycle turns again, the meaning starts refilling, shifting in appearance but the core is still instilling that the draft I never sent is the truth that keeps me thrilling — a recurring dream of purpose in a world that’s always spilling.