Weeds in the Grass by Leanne LindsayThe Persistence of the Small
My first instinct was to walk right past it. I have grown weary of the way we romanticize the overlooked, as if simply pointing a finger at a patch of dirt is enough to grant it significance. We are constantly told to find beauty in the mundane,…
Staircase by Leanne LindsayThe Weight of Ascent
We climb to forget the ground.
Each step is a small surrender. We leave the weight of the day on the floor below, hoping the next level will offer a thinner air, a quieter mind. But the architecture of our longing is rarely solid. It…
The Weight of a Sunday
We often speak of time as a river, something that flows past us with a relentless, unidirectional pull. But there are moments—usually on a Sunday, when the light hangs heavy and golden against the brickwork—where time seems to pool instead.…