The Weight of Light
A thousand stars, held in the palm of a hand.
We gather in the dark to prove we are not alone. We raise our small, artificial suns, hoping to catch a flicker of something larger than our own pulse. It is a strange ritual. To reach toward…
The Rhythm of Worn Stone
The smell of damp pavement after a sudden rain always pulls me back to the feeling of uneven ground beneath my feet. It is a specific, gritty texture—the way a sidewalk feels when it has been smoothed by a thousand soles, cold and unyielding…
The Weight of the Step
We walk because the earth requires it. Each step is a small negotiation with gravity, a quiet insistence that we are still here, moving through the space allotted to us. There is a rhythm to the aging stride—a careful placement of weight,…