Some mornings, I wake as the ocean wakes—vast, unhurried, holding everything without effort.

The universe settles into my bones like silt after storms, and I am done with the ancient war between what is and what I wish were.

These are the days I stop hunting joy like a starved animal tracking scent through thorned wilderness.

Instead it pools in the hollow of my palms like rainwater, sweet and unasked for, arriving only when I learn to cup my hands and wait.

What use is a compass when every direction leads home?

What use is a clock when eternity breathes in each moment, the way your heart beats its faithful rhythm without your permission?

Who needs the comfort of conversation when the world speaks in a thousand tongues?

The shuffle of leaves against wind, the discussion of stones in streams, the way shadows lean into each other at dusk, sharing secrets you've always known but forgotten how to hear.

I am alone the way the moon is alone, necessary, complete, surrounded by the endless singing dark.

In this stillness, I belong only to myself.