Zebra Seeking Spoons

The room begins to tilt

as if the world has forgotten its balance,

as if gravity has loosened its grip

just slightly,

just enough to make me question

whether I am the one who’s moving

or if everything else has decided to sway.

The ceiling lowers and rises,

the floor hums beneath my feet,

and the edges of things blur

like watercolor left too long in the rain.

I blink,

but the horizon still bends.

I breathe,

but the air is too fluid to trust.

Dizziness is not just spinning—

it’s the slow betrayal of certainty,

the whisper that even standing still

can be dangerous.

Sometimes I hold onto walls

like old friends.

Sometimes I close my eyes

and pretend the darkness is steadier

than the light.

People see only the pause,

the hand on the chair,

the half-smile that hides

how much it takes to stay upright.

Inside, I am oceans—

currents twisting,

tides confused,

searching for shore.

And yet,

even in this motion,

even as the room leans sideways,

I am learning to find balance

not in the stillness,

but in the grace

of keeping on standing.