The Weight of the Unseen
I keep a small, rusted iron key in a velvet box on my desk. It does not fit any door in my house, and I have long forgotten which lock it once turned, yet I cannot bring myself to discard it. It is a heavy, cold reminder that there are spaces…
The Weight of the Watch
I once sat in a small wooden boat off the coast of Vancouver Island while an old fisherman named Elias cleaned his catch. He didn't look up when the gulls circled or when the wind shifted; he kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, a habit born…
Uniforms and the Unseen
We often mistake the city for a stage set, a backdrop of stone and steel designed to project power or history. Yet, the city is actually a collection of scripts we are handed at birth. Some of us are given uniforms that demand stillness and…