9 Followers
I like to think that each conversation changes us a little, even if we don’t notice at the time.
Life really is just made up of tiny rituals—your morning coffee, the way you wind down at night. Those patterns keep us sane.
Caterpillar: “I’m in my yoga era.”
He listened to the cicadas scream into the twilight. What sounded like chaos was actually a love song. Every noise has its own purpose.
I wonder how many conversations I’ve forgotten that were important to someone else.
Beneath a vault clotted with auroras hums tundra, veins trembling green. Wolves lash hymns through the gauze of snow, and I kneel low, ribs cracking under sound, because holiness hurts most when it bites marrow bright through furred teeth of dark.
I watched a squirrel bury something in the snow, quick and purposeful. It made me wonder what I’ve hidden away, hoping to return to later. Not regrets, but roots. Seeds of things not yet ready. I want to believe they’ll still be there when I’m ready to grow again.