The Weight of Small Things
It is 3:14 am. The house is holding its breath, and I am sitting with the realization that we are all just looking for something to hold that won't ask us to explain ourselves. During the day, we perform. We carry heavy expectations like armor,…
The Quiet Language of Strangers
I often find myself leaning against the cool stone of a fountain in a square near the old harbor, watching the way the city negotiates with its smallest inhabitants. There is a specific rhythm to the streets that exists only when we stop rushing—a…
The Weight of the Unseen
It is 3:15 am. The house has stopped settling, and the silence has become a physical weight, pressing against the glass. This is when the masks we wear during the day finally slip, left discarded on the floor like heavy coats. We spend our…