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Sillage
Nothing disappears. It only ceases to be where you are.
You go on believing your life is something you understand, as if you’ve already traced its edges—every doorway you’ve crossed, every wall that has stopped you, every window that has let in just enough light to keep you moving, kept you warm. Yet what you truly know may be smaller than you think, shaped not by the fullness of your life, but by what you are able—at any given moment—to face, to hold, to name without turning away. Beyond that boundary, the rest does not vanish; it waits. And when it comes, as it inevitably will, it does not arrive with menace or surprise, but with a quiet certainty, like something long promised finally stepping forward to be seen.
The Fortunate Darkness
Something in us remains untranslatable.
When we are young and full of theories, nobody tells us that most of life will be based on incomplete information. We choose people before we fully know them. We stay with them while they become someone we didn’t choose. We love them through versions of themselves they haven’t met yet, and they do the same for us. The whole arrangement proceeds without guarantee, without footnotes, without so much as a terms-and-conditions page — which is either the most romantic or the most alarming thing about being human. Possibly both. Probably both.
Brief Burning
Nothing is asked to stay. Still, we answer with devotion.
Time does not spare what is beautiful. It asks only that we love it while it is here. Even the places that seem fixed beyond argument—mountains, shorelines, old trees rooted in silence—are already moving, slowly, toward another form. Wind, water, and time work without urgency, but without pause. A stone at a river’s edge thins a little more with every monsoon, and no one is there to watch it happen.