writings

What you covered to keep going didn't disappear. It waited, the way seeds wait. Quiet isn't the same as gone.

There is experience happening, and no one separate from it having it.

Two lives moving in the same direction, never meeting. The closeness you mistook for connection was just synchronized loneliness.

You assume something must be pulling you. Look up. The ceiling is empty. The dance was always yours.

Between the thing that happens and the story you tell about it, there's a small unguarded second. That's where you actually live.

Strip away the roles, the names, the things you've been called. Whatever doesn't leave is the part worth knowing.

Chasing it is the surest way to be the one thing it can't catch. The pursuit and the absence have always been the same shape.

Strip everything else and this is what's left. The air you didn't ask for, arriving on schedule, asking nothing back.