The Weight of Stillness
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 sitting on a wooden porch as a child, my legs dangling, skin prickling against the rough, splintered…
The Weight of a Feather
I keep a small, iridescent feather tucked inside the pages of a book I rarely open. It was found on a windowsill years ago, a fragile remnant of a visitor that did not stay. To hold it is to feel the impossible lightness of a life that exists…
The Weight of a Gaze
To be watched is to be measured. We walk through the woods, believing we are the ones observing, the ones cataloging the world. We forget that the forest has its own eyes. There is a stillness in the wild that does not belong to us. It is a…