It always starts the same: light through blinds, the click of the kettle, the soft groan of plumbing. You don’t realize you’re building a ritual until the ritual disappears. Then suddenly, the absence has shape. My old apartment had a window that faced nothing special—just a brick wall, faded graffiti, a stubborn weed that grew through concrete. I used to stare at it while waiting for the toaster to pop. I never thought I’d miss that view. But now, it visits me uninvited. In sterile hotel rooms. In the blur between meetings. In the quiet moments before a notification chimes. We think we miss people or places. Sometimes, what we miss is the version of ourselves that existed in those hours we never thought to notice. Mornings are forgettable by design. They're repetition, maintenance, routine. But there's something sacred in their silence. The way the world is half-asleep, and so are you. No performance yet. No crisis. Just the click of a spoon against ceramic and the low hum ...
I dwell in the spaces where shadows meet light, where questions outnumber answers. A seeker of truths buried deep, I write to unearth what lies beneath the surface. In the chaos, I find my voice. In the silence, I find myself.