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