Where the Earth Ends
We are small. We have always known this, though we spend our lives building walls to pretend otherwise. To stand in the dark is to be reminded of the scale of things. The stars do not care for our names or our histories. They burn in a silence…
The Weight of the Journey
I keep a small, rusted compass in my desk drawer, its needle long ago surrendered to the stillness of the casing. It belonged to a grandfather who spoke of distances as if they were living things, measured not in miles but in the slow, rhythmic…
The Geography of a Breath
We are all, in some sense, creatures of migration. We carry the maps of our origins in the marrow of our bones, forever pulled toward the warmth of a different season. There is a quiet, trembling courage in the act of arrival—to land in a…