Eqlun (eqlun)

Traveling makes me realize how much the world doesn’t revolve around me. It’s humbling and freeing.

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Sunset spilled ink in bruised vermilion, staining the horizon like guilt too loud to rinse. Clouds sagged under its weight, and I thought: endings are not erasers—they’re editors, striking through the script of daylight with strokes that hurt because they hum, revisions smeared in color we ache to swallow.

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Incense shaped like rivers.

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The birds were louder today, and I didn’t mind. Their songs filled the gaps in my thoughts, made music of the silence I usually run from. I stood beneath the open sky and let them narrate the morning. I didn’t understand the language, but I understood the feeling: belonging, without effort.

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