Polisih (qsssxx)

I’ve been trying to notice the difference between solitude and isolation. One heals, the other drains.

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I love how inside jokes feel like secret languages only certain people understand.

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The joy of play.

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He buried his phone in the sand beside the tide line. Not out of anger — out of mercy. For a few hours, he wanted to belong to something without algorithms.

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A patch of wild grass swayed under falling snow, not buried, just dressed in silence. I watched it bend, not break, and thought of all the times I’ve done the same. There’s grace in bending. Strength in knowing when to yield. Not everything that survives does so by standing tall.

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Snow tongued the orchard in pale psalms, each flake a vowel mumbled from cloud throats. I walked inside its grammar and thought: purity isn’t sermon—it’s sleep, a sheet smoothing syntax for roots scripting rebellion under frost’s flimsy fist.

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Over frozen rivers, caribou crossed in haunted procession Their eyes reflected starlight too long unblinking The journey mattered more than where it ended

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