There are certain nights that stretch longer than the hours they contain, nights where sleep refuses to come not because the body is restless, but because the mind is alive with questions that have no names, echoes that cannot be traced back to any single moment yet ring as loudly as a memory pressed into the skin, and it is on these nights that we
There are parts of the human heart that memory alone cannot reach, places where time has grown thick with forgetfulness, where feelings that once roared like fire now smolder in silence, waiting not for rescue but for recognition, and it is in these quiet, often hidden corners that some of our most sacred truths reside—not in logic, not in words,
There is a peculiar kind of stillness that settles in the body when everything around us grows quiet—not the peaceful stillness of meditation or rest, but the unsettling silence that comes when even the distractions no longer distract, when the noise of the day dissolves and leaves behind a raw, unfiltered awareness of what we feel and what we la