Sometimes awareness moves faster than language.
It doesn’t ask to be named—just noticed.
By the time I try to capture it, it’s already turned into something else.
Still, I write.
Not to explain.
Only to offer.
To leave a note in the places where someone else might one day stop and breathe.
When I stay present in what once fractured me, something reorganizes.
Not outside me—around me.
The field shifts, like the air right before rain.
No persuasion, no performance.
Only resonance.
I’ve learned that objectivity was only a roof I built to keep from being burned again.
Now I write from the open window instead.
From the place that bends.
From the place that lets life pass through.
Maybe that’s all writing really is—
breath made visible.
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