The Salt of Stillness
The air before a storm tastes of ozone and dry pine needles, a sharp, metallic tang that settles at the back of the throat. I remember standing on a dock as a child, the wood beneath my bare feet splintered and warm, vibrating with the low,…
The Weight of Still Water
The city does not sleep; it only holds its breath. In the hours when the traffic thins and the streetlamps hum, the concrete loses its hardness. It becomes something else—a mirror for the things we try to leave behind during the day. We walk…
The Distance Between Us
There is a line that separates the one who acts from the one who watches. It is a thin, invisible border, yet it holds the weight of a lifetime. We spend our days drifting between these two states. Sometimes we are the ones pulling the oar,…