04/07/2026
This moment casts light on all our jagged pieces, and their shadows reveal the fractured silhouette of someone we perhaps never expected to be.
Some parts were forged—fought for and celebrated. Some are left in a trail behind us, somewhere between ghost and memory. And there are the ones we collected along in the way like burrs on our soul, just to survive.
But we leave it all behind, and take nothing with us, when we depart from this world. Somehow, this calls us to give more—not less—to those in our lives, as none of this is truly ours to begin with.
Love is not a transaction, no more than hope is a finite dust. We conjure it, whenever and wherever we want it to exist. We are all magic in this way.
On stage, the audience sees the performer in their entirety—their humanity revealed in glimpses. All they ever were or hoped to be has accumulated, and arrived, in that moment.
Life is not a winding road, but an infinitely turning wheel. We tumble through its passages, and what feels like a path may just be a dream, or nightmare, imparting lessons until we learn them well enough to be visited by them no more.
Some days taste like honey. Others are ash. But they feed the soul—and mark the body —all the same.
We may cry alone, or laugh in someone’s arms. But the wheel turns again. And some stars which erupted to give us life somehow still appear to burn when we watch the heavens, as if to say that when it seems our light has faded—it is still there—winking out only to become something else entirely.
So your lover’s sleeping breath is a miracle. Her heartbeat, a tide waiting to crash against yours and melt together—just as night loves to bleed into its promised dawn.
Ashes and honey. The dusks, the graves. The joys, the strain. Our gods and demons, and these infinitely turning, ever mortal days.
