The Weight of Ancient Stone
I often find myself wandering the backstreets of old districts, tracing the cracks in brickwork as if they were lines on a map of someone else’s memory. There is a particular silence that settles over a ruin, a heavy, velvet quiet that seems…
The Weight of Being
The smell of cold iron always brings me back to the train station of my childhood, where the air tasted of wet soot and damp wool. There was a heavy, brass-handled scale near the platform, its surface worn smooth by thousands of nervous palms.…
The Weight of What Remains
It is 3:14 am. The house is holding its breath, and for once, I am not trying to fill the silence with noise. There is a specific kind of ache that comes from waiting for things to reveal themselves. We spend our lives standing before walls…