Botan Babies from Hasankeyf by Mehmet Masum SuerThe Memory of Stitched Hands
We often mistake permanence for the stone beneath our feet, forgetting that history is just as fragile as a hemline or a button held by a single, fraying thread. There is a quiet ache in things that are made by hand, a lingering warmth from…
The Weight of Stolen Time
I am generally suspicious of places that demand we feel a certain way. We walk into grand halls or historic spaces and we are told, by the very architecture, to be small, to be reverent, to be moved. It feels like a performance. I usually resist…
The Weight of Unseen Light
It is 3:14 am. The house is holding its breath, and I am sitting with the ghosts of who I used to be. We spend our lives trying to keep our edges sharp, trying to prove that we are solid, that we are not just drifting smoke. But then you catch…