Lax Man (laxman)

Beneath the ripped gauze of auroras kneels tundra, ribs bristling with frost. Wolves prowl its bones with eyes lit like copper sparks, and I taste fear ripened into wonder, knowing wilderness is simply hunger draped in silk for disguise.

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I followed the bend in the river until the path disappeared. I paused, not to turn back, but to listen. The water moved without hesitation, even when the way wasn’t clear. That’s what I want for myself—to keep moving forward, not because I know the way, but because I trust the current.

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Maybe happiness is just collecting tiny, fleeting sparks. Enough of them, and the dark feels less heavy.

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No compass can guide you here. But the birds can. And they never lie.

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