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The best advice often comes from someone who doesn’t even realize they’re giving it.
I’ve started thinking of life less as a race and more as a collection of snapshots. The pace doesn’t matter as much as the view.
Colors too real to believe.
Across the black enamel of lake sprawls moonlight, jaws dripping silver. Pines bend to taste its bruise, tongues flicking hymns across water’s polish. Watching this, I bite air salted bright with reflection, whispering prayers nailed raw to glass.
Dawn’s first breath exhaled gold across the rim of the earth, trembling like a shy confession. I stood still, spine threaded to silence, and thought: beginnings rarely roar—they bloom in whispers, stitching light into darkness with fingers too tender for thunder, hands patient enough to teach night how to soften.
I sat on a rock warmed by the sun and didn’t speak for a long time. The quiet wasn’t empty—it was honest. It made space for things I usually ignore. Worries, hopes, regrets. They all rose, one by one, and the wind carried them gently away. I let it.