What you already know is what's keeping the new thing out. The cup has to be poured before it can be filled.
The cup sits silent on the table,
Its rim still warm from morning coffee.
Outside, butterflies chase the wind,
While emptiness holds everything that is.
The thoughts haven't slowed. What changed is who I think I am inside them.
Point at your hand. You see your hand. Point at the place everyone calls your face, and the finger arrives at the room.
Sometimes the question isn't looking for an answer. It's the shape the avoidance takes when it learns to sound like searching.
Some pain isn't a malfunction. It's a measurement of how close you stood to something worth losing.
Sent when something is worth saying.
Please check your inbox and click the confirmation link. Oops! Something went wrong while processing your subscription. Please try again later or contact us if the issue persists.