The Weight of Being Seen
It is 3:14 am, and the house is finally quiet enough to hear the hum of the refrigerator. In the dark, I think about the hunger we all carry—the desperate, quiet need to be witnessed. We spend our days performing, hoping that someone, somewhere,…
The Weight of Sweetness
It is 3:15 am, and the house is holding its breath. In the dark, the memory of a meal feels like a ghost. We spend our days consuming things—flavors, colors, the warmth of a sun that promises everything will be alright. We believe that if…
The Weight of the Threshold
The smell of damp earth after a long drought is a heavy, velvet thing that clings to the back of the throat. It is the scent of waiting. I remember walking through a thicket of low-hanging branches where the air grew cool and tight against…