I have learned
that focus is not a mood.
It is a private room
with a locked door
and good lighting.
It is the moment I stop auditioning
for people who could not even spell
my name
without borrowing my dictionary.
I became sharper
when I became less available.
Less accessible to noise.
Less prone to panic.
Less charitable with interruptions
dressed in urgency.
My acuity returned first.
Then my dexterity.
Then that old intellectual propensity
to see the hinge before the door,
the motive before the compliment,
the consequence before the invitation.
A woman with focus
is a dangerous kind of elegant.
She does not need to announce her strategy.
She moves with quiet alacrity,
adroit hands,
a lucid mind,
and a face so composed
It makes one feel underdressed.
I became assiduous with my peace.
Fastidious with my attention.
Circumspect with my yes.
Discerning with every room
that wanted my radiance
But not my name on the deed.
Privacy, I discovered,
is not loneliness.
It is architecture.
A sacred, austere little palace
where the mind can stretch,
where the spirit can breathe,
where the work can mature
without premature applause
or unsolicited opinions
wearing cheap perfume.
There is a certain sass
in withholding the blueprint.
A certain poise
in letting people wonder
How did you become so formidable
without narrating every wound,
every betrayal,
every midnight prayer,
Every invoice is paid late,
every dream that still had the nerve
to arrive dressed in silk.
Let them call it a mystery.
Let them call it silence.
Let them say you have changed.
Of course, I have changed.
I did not survive distraction
to become decorative.
My mind is not a hallway
for passing feet.
My vision is not community property.
My brilliance is not a public park
where anyone may sit, litter,
and leave.
I have become taciturn
where I once overexplained.
Sagacious,
where I once waited for permission.
Incisive,
where I once softened the blade
so no one would accuse me
of knowing too much.
Now I know plenty.
I know the cost of access.
I know the weight of candor.
I know that every open door, it
is not an opportunity.
Some are merely exits
with better lighting.
So I stay private.
Not hidden.
Private.
There is a difference.
Hidden is fear.
Private is sovereignty.
Private is the woman
finishing the manuscript,
the degree,
the vision,
the life,
while the room assumes
She has gone quiet
because she has nothing to say.
How adorable.
I have plenty to say.
I am simply no longer
wasting revelation
on recreational listeners.
My focus has become devotional.
My attention, consecrated.
My intellect, a blade rinsed clean.
I do not flirt with chaos.
I do not confuse visibility
with victory.
I sit with my books,
my ocean,
my ancestors,
My tea is cooling beside me,
and the whole room changes temperature
because a woman
who has eliminated distraction
does not merely think.
She perceives.
And when she moves,
she moves with evidence.
With acuity.
With dexterity.
With grace.
With receipts.
With the kind of private power
That makes noise nervous
And destiny sits up straight–
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