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Sometimes I look at old photos and wonder how I thought those were bad days, when in fact they were way lighter than now. Maybe the mind just tricks us with time. Weird, huh.
The hardest truths are the ones I whisper only to myself.
Clumsy little adventurers on the cliff.
At the canopy's edge, gibbons swung like joyful punctuation Their limbs reached language before sound They didn’t speak—they celebrated gravity
By the mangrove roots, crabs skittered into narrative Their shells whispered of tide and time I stepped back to not interrupt
And when I was ready, I stood up, not stronger, not wiser—just softer, like the leaves after rain, heavy but still reaching toward light.
Dawn crept softly, brushing color over the horizon like an artist hesitant to wake the dark. Light slipped into shadows tenderly, not to conquer but to coexist. I watched, learning that daybreak is not about erasing night—it’s about making room for hope beside the remnants of fear.