Paokms (lamlamq)

The best part of traveling isn’t the destination. It’s the way it changes your lens on home.

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It’s weird how we think of life in milestones when really it’s just a string of ordinary days.

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Mini worlds among coral.

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Evening glow across the lake.

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Beneath the jagged lip of reef roars surf, hymns dripping white as bone-milk. Foam slaps basalt raw, biting vowels through sky’s enamel, and I drink its hiss whole, ribs bright with prayer nailed loud across the rusted teeth of night.

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I sat by the edge of a frozen pond, watching cracks form slowly like spiderwebs. They didn’t break it—just gave it character. That’s how I feel some days. Not shattered, just lined with evidence that I’ve held weight and weathered cold, and I’m still holding on, still whole.

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Some days I don’t want advice, I just want someone to sit in the silence with me.

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