What happens when purpose is too small—and still too heavy? There’s a paperclip on my desk that hasn’t held anything together in weeks. It just lies there—twisted slightly, one end stretched from some past insistence. It used to bind pages, serve a purpose. Now it just listens. I wonder if it remembers. How strange that something designed to be useful becomes unsettling when it’s still. That its inaction feels like failure, even though it hasn't broken, hasn't rusted. It's just... unneeded. We call objects "idle" when they are not in use, as if their worth depends on being occupied. As if stillness is only ever temporary, and silence is a flaw to be fixed. The paperclip hasn’t moved in days, but neither have I. I sit here most mornings, staring at a blank document, wondering if I’ve bent myself out of shape trying to hold things that were never mine to keep. Expectations. Deadlines. People. Ideas. I used to think I was built for connection. But maybe I was j...
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.