Sometimes I write things down just to see what my thoughts look like outside my head.

Power and elegance, frozen mid-flight.

There are days when the silence of a room feels louder than any noise outside.

The sound of pages turning in an old library feels almost sacred. It’s like every whisper carries someone’s unfinished thought into the present.

Sometimes I laugh at jokes that aren’t funny just because the person telling it was.

Small wings sipping white stars.

I keep taking photos of sunsets knowing I’ll never capture the real thing, but maybe that’s the point.

It’s strange how the smallest decisions—taking one street instead of another—can change the rhythm of an entire day.

There are mornings when I wake up with a clear plan, and evenings when I laugh at how far the day strayed.

I took a day off to rest, then spent it assembling furniture.

The best souvenirs from a trip aren’t things, they’re stories.

The more I travel, the more I realize people everywhere want the same simple things: love, safety, and connection.

My mornings have become slower. I drink my coffee without looking at my phone. It feels like a gift to myself.