Desire didn’t feel like wanting

I didn’t wake up knowing I was going to Carlisle.

There was no picture in my mind, no promise attached to the name. Just a quiet sense that going back immediately to what I already knew would be louder than necessary.

Desire didn’t feel like wanting. It felt like less resistance in one direction than another.

Manchester was available. Familiar. Waiting.

But the thought of stepping back into it this morning carried a faint weight—nothing dramatic, just enough to notice. Carlisle, by contrast, didn’t sparkle. It simply didn’t press on me.

That difference mattered.

I noticed curiosity first, not excitement.

What would it be like to arrive somewhere smaller, flatter, closer to the ground?

Not as a statement—just as a continuation of the day.

There was openness in the idea.

Room for walking without a plan.

Room for an hour that didn’t need filling.

Room for the body to land before the next thing.

Desire, I realized, doesn’t always push forward.

Sometimes it leans sideways.

I wasn’t choosing Carlisle because it was better.

I was choosing it because it didn’t require me to be anything on arrival. No explanation. No improvement. No momentum to maintain.

The decision didn’t feel final. That was part of the relief.

It didn’t feel like a chapter opening. It felt like permission to let the morning finish unfolding before asking it for more.

So I went—not because I was drawn, but because I wasn’t being pulled away.

That was enough to move.