The Weight of Stone
I keep a small, smooth river stone in the pocket of my winter coat, a weight I often find myself rubbing between my thumb and forefinger when the world feels too thin. It was pulled from a creek bed years ago, back when time seemed to move…
(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Weight of Fading Gold
I keep a pressed marigold inside a heavy dictionary, its edges now translucent and brittle as a moth’s wing. It was plucked in the final, frantic heat of August years ago, back when time felt like a river that would never run dry. When I…
The Architecture of Silence
There is a particular weight to the air when the world is still waking, a thin, crystalline layer of silence that sits between the earth and the sky. It is in these moments that the landscape reveals its true bones, stripped of the frantic…