The Echo of Stone
We build our monuments as if we are writing a letter to the future, carving our names into the skin of the earth, hoping the stone will hold the weight of our intentions. We stack brick upon brick, believing that if we make the walls high enough,…
The Edge of Silence
There is a weight to being watched by something that does not know your name. In the deep woods, or perhaps in the tall grass where the air grows heavy, a presence emerges from the periphery. It is not an intrusion. It is a boundary. We spend…
The Weight of a Winter Breath
The air in late November has a sharp, metallic tang, like a copper coin pressed against the tongue. It is a cold that settles deep into the marrow, making the joints ache with a dull, rhythmic thrum. I remember the sensation of wool against…