The Salt in the Air
The sea does not care for our presence. It moves with a rhythm that predates our arrival and will continue long after we have turned to dust. We stand at the edge, watching the water pull back, a slow retreat that feels like a question. There…
The Geometry of Being Small
When I was seven, my uncle took me to the county fair in a town whose name I have forgotten, but whose noise I can still hear. I remember the way the metal rides groaned against the sky, a rhythmic, mechanical heartbeat that felt like it belonged…
The Arc of Leaving
There is a specific height where the ground ceases to be a place and becomes merely a memory. When we are small, we believe that rising is the same as escaping. We climb, we reach, we tilt our heads toward the fading light, convinced that the…