There are days that pass like fog, moments that blur at the edges and lose their shape not because nothing happened but because everything felt the same, a quiet uniformity that dulls the senses and erases the boundaries between hours and thoughts and breath, and in this dullness, something begins to ache—not sharply, but persistently, a soft kin
There are days when we forget that we are allowed to want, when everything becomes about getting through, about surviving, about doing what needs to be done, and in those days the heart begins to grow quiet, not because it has nothing to say but because it doesn’t know where to speak, and in that silence we begin to drift, away from joy, away fro
There is a space between decision and result that feels like the whole world sometimes, a pause that stretches time into something almost spiritual, and it is in that space that we come closest to our real selves, not the selves we present or perform or protect, but the ones who live in the center of our longing, and that longing is not a flaw—it