The Rhythm of the Unending
There is a quiet, terrifying persistence in the way water carves a canyon, or in the way a clock ticks when the house is otherwise silent. We often mistake repetition for stagnation, forgetting that the tide does not return to the same shore…
The Tide’s Quiet Erasure
I keep a small, smooth stone in my pocket that I found on a beach long ago. It is worn down by the constant, rhythmic friction of the ocean, losing its sharp edges until it became something soft and singular. There is a strange comfort in holding…
The Weight of Quiet Steps
I spent this morning trying to fix a loose floorboard in the hallway. It kept creaking under my weight, a sharp, sudden protest that made me jump every time I stepped on it. I found myself moving across the room with a strange, new caution,…