Joe (Rehearsal)

The day opens like a checkpoint: a gate that counts, not forbids.
We fumble our courage, hear it tick across the floor, and call that clatter progress.
Mistakes flicker—little glitches—but they illuminate the path more honestly than triumph.

A voice inside writes to us in the margin: try again.
Not a command—an invitation.
We learn the craft of continuing: farming quiet hope, carrying calm like a lantern.
To be “low HP” is only to feel the heart nearer; to be mapless is only to trust the breath.

And when the frame goes grey, we are not erased.
We return—smaller, truer—respawned at the edge of ourselves.
What owns us is what we refuse to name defeat.
Another coin. Another scene.
We stand, almost laughing, and press start again.

Checkpoint Blues

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