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Drift

by Victor Rivera
Aug 20, 2026

the autopilot the inheritance the origin the toll
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There I was.

Floating.

Arms extended, water lapping around my ears. Above me, clouds shaped like cotton balls. Bright blue sky. The sun burning on my upper arms. An old wind came over and whispered something I can't recall.

Breathe in. Hold it. Let go... sslllooowwwly.

One more breath.

Shit. I forgot to pay the cleaning lady.

Let go. Breathe in. Hold.

Don't forget to call Mum back.

Breathe in. Hold.

Must make plans with Stephen.

Breathe. In.

Drift.

Meditation is a muscle.

I kept waiting to arrive somewhere.

Instead, I spent twenty minutes noticing I'd wandered off.

Then I remembered something.

I can't swim.


Season 2. Letter 08. A letter whenever truth asks for it, when the repair demands it. When love insists. If you're curious about the coaching work → sundaymorning.coach


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