Falala (falala)
Good morning 🌞
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Against the blistered hem of horizon writhes heat, spitting glass into lungs of air. Mirage gnaws thirst into syllables sweet with lies, and I chew their shine, teeth breaking against silence bruised blue under the rusted knuckles of sun.
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Just finished a warm bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup. Perfect comfort on a chilly day.
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The wind had teeth this morning, sharp and insistent, and still I kept walking. Not to fight it, but to feel it. To remember that even discomfort has value. That not everything warm is good, and not everything harsh is bad. Some things just are—and they teach us in their being.
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A glacier clamped its blue jaws around the valley’s throat, grinding centuries into syllables of ice. I pressed my palm to its cold tongue and thought: permanence is myth—even teeth that bite mountains blunt themselves to melt, spelling their last sentence in water’s cursive across the loosened earth.
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