The Weight of the Transit
We are always in transit. Moving from one place to another, convinced that the destination holds the meaning we lack. We sit in metal shells, watching the blur of the world, waiting for a signal to change, for a path to clear. There is a peculiar…
The Salt on the Skin
The air before a storm tastes of wet iron and crushed river reeds. It is a heavy, humid thickness that clings to the back of the throat, demanding you swallow the atmosphere whole. I remember the feeling of water against my palms—not the…
The Hum of Still Water
The air tonight tastes of damp pavement and the metallic tang of cooling iron. I remember standing on a bridge once, the kind that vibrates when a heavy vehicle passes, sending a shiver through the soles of my feet. There is a specific silence…