The Weight of Passing Time
The blue wool sweater my father wore every winter for a decade is gone. It was not discarded; it simply wore thin at the elbows and frayed at the cuffs until it became a ghost of itself, eventually vanishing into the cycle of things that are…
(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Geography of Skin
There is a specific texture to time that gathers in the creases of the palms. It feels like dry parchment or the rough, sun-baked bark of an ancient banyan tree that has stood through a thousand monsoons. When I close my eyes, I can almost…
(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Quiet Between Sips
I burned my tongue on my tea this morning because I was too busy scrolling through emails to notice the steam. It was a frantic, scalding start to the day. It made me realize how rarely I actually sit with a drink. Usually, it is just fuel,…