June 13, 2025

I have shed skins, names, symptoms. I cleansed every corner of the temple, not missing a single speck of dust. I’ve learned to draw again, not for glory, just to remember. There are things in me that have never forgotten the light.

Yet something remains, not pain, not grief, not even loneliness in its usual. Something quieter, older, closer to the where the spirit seats. I keep thinking it will leave once the projects are done, once the shelves are tidy, once the words line up into meaning. But it waits still at the hallway. A weightless ache, like longing without a map. Like sadness that doesn’t belong to anyone or anywhere. Like the dream you wake from crying, but can't explain why.

Some days I just want to lie on the floor, like a cracked plate that chooses not to be glued. No solutions, as there is nothing to fix. It is not despair, not even sorrow, it's the space between those, the deep ultraviolet, the echo that never needed a voice to exist. I am not asking to be understood. This is not a confession, this is not poetry, this is just the soul when it remembers everything.