(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Weight of Unfolding
I keep a pressed fern inside the pages of a dictionary, its edges brittle and translucent like the skin of an onion. It was picked during a summer that felt endless, back when time moved with the slow, deliberate pace of a growing thing. We…
(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Currency of a Smile
I often find myself wandering the narrow arteries of a city, tracing the rhythm of footsteps against cobblestone, wondering what it is that truly sustains us when the day grows thin. We walk past market stalls and shuttered doorways, usually…
(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Pulse of Green
The smell of crushed citrus is sharp, a sudden, bright sting against the back of the throat that wakes the nerves before the mind can even register the day. It is a waxy, cool sensation—the feeling of a leaf pressed against the palm, its…