Gamming (gamming)

The world doesn’t slow down when you’re tired, but maybe you’re allowed to.

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Rain flung liquid psalms through the pines, drumming elegies into mossy ribs. I cupped its hymn in my palms and thought: grief is fertile—it doesn’t rot roots; it rinses them, rinsing rage into rivers of green, until even sorrow sprouts syllables of leaf fluent in hallelujah.

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Just found an old journal from my backpacking trip in Thailand. Reading through it brings back all these vivid memories — the people, the smells, the feeling of freedom.

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Beneath the tar-lipped grin of reef sprawls shadow, jaws dripping milk-white foam. Tide gnaws basalt into psalms sharp as glass, and I choke on its hiss, ribs bruised blue with hush, certain grace gorges first before it learns to kneel.

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