The long days arrived exactly as promised, and my next nine days were a blur of repetition, failure, and the slow, grinding process of teaching my body to do something it was never meant to do.
Movement was the problem. The earth I could hold, but the moment my feet shifted, the connection tore. It did not matter how careful I was, or how slowly I moved; the ground seemed to actively resist being dragged along with me. Every step was a reset, and every reset cost me pain and discomfort as I reconnected from the start.
There is no clever way to write down nine days of the same failure, and I am not going to invent one for the journal. I stood, I connected, I lifted, I shifted my weight, and the earth let go of me with that small rude snap like a dog that always bites the same finger.
