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