The Sky

I always know the beginning of the ascent by the spark behind my eyes. It’s the smallest shift, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but unmistakable to me. A flicker. A sharpening. A quiet ignition in the center of my skull, as if someone has cracked open a window in my mind and let in a gust of bright, electric air.

It doesn’t feel like excitement.

It feels like acceleration.

The spark arrives before the thoughts do. Before the speed. Before the brightness. It’s a physical sensation — a tightening of focus, a narrowing of the world into something crisp and high‑definition. My vision feels slightly too sharp, like the edges of objects have been outlined in light.

Sleep becomes irrelevant.

Not resisted — irrelevant.

I lie in bed with my eyes open in the dark, not restless, not anxious, just awake in a way that feels unnatural and effortless. My mind hums with a low, steady current, like a machine warming up. I don’t toss or turn. I don’t check the clock. I simply exist in a state of alertness that feels both familiar and slightly dangerous.

By the time morning comes, I’m already ahead of myself. My feet hit the floor with more force than I intend. My movements are too quick, too precise, too efficient. The air feels thinner, easier to breathe, as if oxygen has become a performance enhancer.

This is the part no one sees — the quiet beginning, the subtle tilt. The moment when energy stops being something I generate and becomes something that generates me.

I don’t feel euphoric.

I feel inevitable.

The first shift is always in the body. Long before the thoughts accelerate, long before the brightness arrives, my physiology changes in ways that are subtle but unmistakable.

My skin feels thinner, more porous, as if the boundary between me and the world has loosened. Air moves differently across my arms — sharper, cooler, more noticeable. Even the temperature of the room feels altered, as if someone has turned down the humidity inside my chest.

My heartbeat sits higher in my body.

Not faster — closer.

As if it has migrated upward, pulsing behind my sternum with a quiet insistence.

My breathing changes too. It becomes shallow but efficient, like my lungs have decided to conserve time rather than oxygen. I inhale quickly, exhale quickly, as if my body is preparing for a sprint I haven’t agreed to run.

There’s a tension in my jaw I don’t notice until I try to unclench it. A tightness in my shoulders that feels like readiness rather than stress. My hands move with a precision that borders on impatience — fingers tapping, adjusting, straightening, reaching for tasks that don’t need doing.

My vision sharpens.

Edges glow.

Colors feel slightly over-saturated.

Even sound changes. The refrigerator hum becomes a frequency I can’t ignore. Footsteps upstairs feel amplified. The click of a light switch sounds like a spark. My auditory system becomes a net catching everything, even the things I’d rather let pass through.

My appetite disappears.

Not suppressed — irrelevant.

Food becomes an interruption to momentum.

My body feels light, almost buoyant, as if gravity has loosened its hold on me. I move through the house with a kind of unearned efficiency, my steps too quick, my gestures too sharp. I reach for things before I’ve fully decided to reach for them. My body is ahead of me, leading the way.

There’s a heat behind my eyes — not feverish, not painful, just a concentrated warmth that feels like the beginning of illumination. The spark. The ignition. The first flare of the internal weather shifting.

Then the mental shift arrives — quiet at first, then unmistakable.

Thoughts begin to multiply. Not chaotically, not yet, but with a kind of confident momentum. One idea sparks another, and another, and another, each one arriving fully formed, as if they’ve been waiting just outside the door for the spark to let them in.

My mind becomes a room with too many windows open.

Air rushing in from every direction.

Everything bright.

Everything urgent.

I don’t feel overwhelmed.

I feel capable.

This is the seduction of the ascent — the way it convinces me that speed is clarity, that momentum is mastery, that the sudden flood of ideas is evidence of brilliance rather than chemistry.

My internal monologue becomes a chorus.

Not loud — layered.

Not frantic — fast.

I can hold multiple thoughts at once, flipping between them with a precision that feels like power. I make connections that feel revelatory. I see patterns everywhere. I narrate my own movements without meaning to. I talk to myself under my breath, not out of confusion but out of abundance.

My attention becomes a spotlight that moves too quickly, illuminating everything for a moment before darting away. I start tasks with conviction and abandon them with equal conviction when a better idea interrupts.

It’s not chaos yet.

It’s momentum.

And momentum feels like truth.

My children notice before anyone else. They always do. They watch me move through the kitchen with too much purpose, too much speed, too much brightness. They track me with their eyes the way animals track a shift in weather — instinctively, quietly, without needing language.

They don’t say anything.

They don’t have to.

Their bodies register the tilt before my words do.

This is the moment the ground begins to angle upward beneath my feet. Not enough to alarm anyone else. Just enough for me to feel the shift in my balance.

I don’t fight it.

I don’t chase it.

I name it.

Because this is the spark that precedes the storm, the ignition that lights the scaffolding I’ll soon climb. And knowing its signature is the only way I stay anchored in a mind that can outrun itself.