
Silence
It is not emptiness I feel, but fullness – a space within me that dreams, that stretches its hands toward something unseen, something yet to arrive, something more beautiful.
The collection

It is not emptiness I feel, but fullness – a space within me that dreams, that stretches its hands toward something unseen, something yet to arrive, something more beautiful.

Time and again, we push through the dark, through the endless turning of days, never surrendering, never undone.

My eyes, open to light, to the glisten of dew on blades of grass, to the dance of shadows across the ground, as if the earth itself breathes, stretching, stirring, and I am part of its waking, alive in every quiet miracle, every whisper of the world.

Hair rose at the back of my neck as I wrote, as if time itself ran its fingers along my spine, reminding me of what I could not outrun. The ticking, louder now, echoed in the quiet, each beat a hammer, each second a pulse I couldn’t ignore.

We only ever move forward, step by step, leaving behind what was – not in regret, but with a gentle nod, as the sun tips over the edge of the world, stretching shadows that grow long, then fade.