Where Words Rest

13/07/2026

I have become a room
where every mirror argues
with the face it was meant to keep.

The windows remain open,
yet every breeze returns
without carrying a name.

I gather words like pebbles,
turning each one in my hand
until they lose their edges.
By morning,
my pockets are still full.

There is a river
that apologizes to every shore it touches,
forgetting
that rivers were never made
to ask permission.

The stars arrive each night
without asking
whether the sky deserves their light.
I envy such certainty.

Meanwhile,
I continue walking
through a forest
that somehow leads me
back to my own footprints.

Perhaps growing
is not climbing a mountain,
but learning
not to mistake every echo
for a verdict.

And if one day
I arrive somewhere
without searching for permission
to stand there,

perhaps I will finally recognize
the stranger
who has been carrying my name
all along.

Send a message to learn more

12/07/2026

How freeing it must be
to live as the wind—
carrying both warmth and cold,
owing no one a reason.

It arrives,
then leaves.

No one asks why.

Yet somehow,
its absence is always felt.

A plant grows,

or withers.

Perhaps only the gardener
keeps count.

The rest
simply pass by.

It thirsts
for rain that never comes,
for hands
that never reach.

Whether it blooms
or bears fruit,
the seasons never hurry.

What right have mortals
to demand becoming?

Time continues.

Nothing answers.

Hope grows thin.

Silence learns my name.

Perhaps

I expected too much

from seasons

that were never mine.

Perhaps

waiting

was mistaken

for faith.

Or perhaps

some things

can only arrive

when no one

is watching.

Still—

if there is one fear

I cannot silence,

it is reaching

the end of the road

still wondering

what might have been.