
Even as life began to pulse again, I found myself walking away from the noise. Not out of melancholy but because the silent, cast-off places still spoke the loudest. The world filled its lungs, but I kept slipping into the edges, chasing the quiet tension where things refuse to fully disappear.
There’s no destination, only a need to keep going—a slow insistence that movement itself is a kind of survival. My feet remember the path, even when I don’t. And somehow, that’s enough to remind me I’m alive.