The water doesn't move the way it used to.
i mean — it does. it will. but in the hour between gold and gone, when the light is deciding whether to stay or leave, everything slows to the pace of breathing. the lake becomes a mirror. the air becomes something you can hold. and your own thoughts finally have enough room to spread out and mean something.
i sat by the water and did nothing useful.
i held my own face in my hand like it was something i needed to take care of. i looked at the sky the way you look at something you're trying to memorise before it changes on you. i wore white because white is the colour of a day that hasn't decided what it wants to be yet — and neither had I. 🤍
the heart pendant rested at my collarbone. the eyelet lace caught the last of the warmth. the lake said nothing but somehow felt like it understood.
there are evenings that ask nothing of you. they don't want you to be productive or purposeful or moving toward anything in particular. they want you to sit still. to notice what the light is doing. to let yourself be in it without trying to make it mean something bigger than what it already is.
this was one of those evenings.
i don't know what i was thinking about exactly. everything and nothing — the way you do when the world gets very quiet and you finally stop rushing past yourself. 🌊
i took no notes. i made no plans. i let the evening hold me the way still water holds a reflection — imperfectly, completely, without trying.
that's the whole story. that's enough.