Lovers by Shirren LimThe Architecture of a Whisper
We often mistake permanence for the stone we build with, forgetting that the most enduring structures are those we carry within the hollows of our own ribs. A monument may claim to hold history, but history is merely a collection of soft, fleeting…
(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Weight of a Hand
The blue wool sweater my father wore is gone, donated to a bin years ago, but the specific weight of his hand on my shoulder remains a phantom limb. It is not the memory of the touch that haunts me, but the sudden, hollow realization that the…
(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Weight of a Sunday Table
I keep a small, tarnished silver fork in my drawer, its tines slightly bent from years of pressing into soft fruit and shared meals. It belonged to a kitchen that no longer exists, a place where the air always smelled of citrus and salt, and…