You are held, even when you cannot feel it—there is strength in the stillness, and the ground remembers you.

You are allowed to flow, to flood, to soften what was once unmovable—your tenderness is power.

You are the shift, the whisper before the change—gentle but certain, invisible but undeniable. Air is what lifts things.

Some things were made to consume and to begin again.

We are more than what has happened to us—there is something unbreakable, humming quietly at our core. Something moves beneath the noise—quiet, steady, untouched by name.

It reaches without needing to arrive. It spills, it slips, it stays longer than expected.

Shadow doesn’t ask to be seen—it simply waits, patient as a second heartbeat. Not absence, but contour; not darkness, but depth.