December 28 - I keep falling. Off rhythms, off rituals, off promises. promises whispered to myself under the soft glow of imagined tomorrows. Journaling every day felt like a promise too, but promises, like stitches, often snap when pulled too tight. But anyway here i am trying again. The sun is out today, shining bright, but the wind steals its warmth. It’s the kind of weather that feels like it’s trying to tell me something, sharp, brisk, and fleeting. i didn’t dress for it, as usual. my summer clothes cling to me in defiance, they are my second skin. winter weather, though, holds my heart, it feels like coming home. i sit with my pen, feeling its weight like it’s carrying more than ink. I love the way it feels in my hand on such days, the way it presses into paper, leaving lines so permanent, so unapologetically real, like truth written into existence, as if marking time itself. My palm skates across the page, a small rebellion against the cool surface of the paper. The pen becomes more than an object. It’s alive, an instrument, an extension of my thoughts. I think about the way my fingers cradle it, for a moment, it feels like holding power, creation, the world. Did God feel the same when he shaped things? Was it a pen he used, or a paintbrush, or maybe just his hands, raw and bare, palms pressed to nothing until it became something? I wonder if he felt the peace i feel when i hold my pen. There’s a vision I hold close, one I’ve carried since I was a child, a backyard bathed in sunlight, a gentle wind nudging the clothesline into song. The clothes sway, soft cotton ghosts dancing against the sky. It’s a quiet heaven, removed from the relentless noise of the world. The air sings a soft song, the sun casts its golden fingers over everything, and peace settles like dust on an undisturbed surface. This image keeps returning to me, unannounced, unbidden, grounding me when the world feels too sharp. It’s strange, how a fragment of a childhood dream can linger, outlasting years, outlasting doubts. My teacher had asked us where we’d like to live. That's when it first came to me. But I couldn't answer her. I didn't have the words to describe how the wind of that sunny afternoon felt in my imagination. And that feeling hasn’t ever left me. I am still trying to find my way to it. That backyard, that moment, that wind. that imagined peace. But peace, I’ve learned, is slippery. It dances just beyond reach, a game of hide and seek with no end. It’s there in glimpses, slipping through your fingers the moment you try to hold it. Outside, I hear new born pups crying. New lives, fragile and fleeting, fighting for survival. Most will not see spring. Their tiny tragedies pass unnoticed, unmourned, just like so much else that vanishes quietly from the world. Life goes on, with or without our permission. Sometimes I wish I could stop running with it. I wish the plants would claim me, take me into their fold. Their roots don’t wander, their leaves don’t ask questions. Rooted and swaying to rhythms far older than time, their harmony is enviable. They sway to the wind and bask in the sun’s embrace, content with simply being. I imagine myself as one of them, soft green and unburdened, listening to the quiet hum of the earth. I wish to shed this skin of noise and human yearning, to just dance in the cool breeze and breathe without want. There’s a strange comfort in the simplicity of things. There’s comfort in becoming part of something larger, something still. There's peace in these quiet moments, like clothes on a line, like the pen on paper. Like dreams of a far-off backyard, swaying, soaking in the sun. A peace which runs away from me again and again. I wish i could bottle it up
dededos
blakekathryn
jacobvanloon
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
