When the sun sinks low,
and the world dissolves into its own dark,
does the shadow mourn the light,
its purpose stolen by the stars?
Or does it slip away unseen,
folding itself into corners
only the forgotten can reach?

Does it dream of being whole—
not the absence of something
but something itself,
a figure unbound
from the body it mimics?

When dawn stretches its golden fingers,
does the shadow flinch,
or does it rise in quiet obedience,
grateful for another day of following,
of existing only as a reflection
of what it can never become?

And when no one is watching,
does the shadow step ahead
just once,
to feel what it’s like
to be?

The mountains keep their secrets well—
in their silence, they bear the grief of stone,
the centuries pressed into stillness,
each stratum a tale of what once was
and what shall ever be.
One looks upon them and thinks,
they have never known what it is to fall.
But does one not hear them groan
beneath the weight of themselves,
the way they shift in the night
like old men turning in their slumber?

Each crack in the rock does whisper
of pressures unseen, tectonics
of ancient sorrows long since stilled.
In this, they are alike to us:
holding fast to the unspoken,
wearing their jagged edges
as though they have no need of gentleness.
But hark—does one hear it?

The way the wind grazes their faces,
how even the stone does yield to that
which is so soft it has no name.

We come to them burdened,
bearing the weight of days
like a sack of heavy stones,
each one a moment believed
to be the end of something vital.

We hold them close, believing
they are all we have—
these small griefs that anchor us
to the ground we tread upon.

But the mountains know
what we have not yet learned—
that every stone shall one day
become dust,
every peak worn smooth
by the selfsame wind
that now does caress the face.
We are not less for this,
nor are we more.

We are but the shape
life has taken to know itself,
to feel, in this brief span,
the vastness of what it means
to be.

Consider this:
the stars, too, shall perish,
and yet their light does wander
the corridors of space,
filling the night long after
they have burned themselves out.
We are no different.
What we are now, in this moment
of small sorrow, shall pass.

It is not the end,
but a whisper in the vastness

of what we are yet to become.
So let the mountains speak to us.

Let them tell how even they
must break and bow to time,
how their strength lies not in
holding firm, but in the slow
unfolding of their edges
to the universe's touch.

We are not small,
nor are we infinite.

We are the echo
of all that has ever been
and all that shall ever be.

Listen, and one shall hear
how the mountains weep
not because they are broken,
but because they are becoming.

                                                  And so are we.

It's distain apart from vain,
To spill and for it to not soak,
Drowned have I my words,
In a well to no revoke,
No one to cry for the eyes that face reluctance to tear,
Aloof,
The burden of my existence I bear.

Only when you are no longer preoccupied with living
can you begin to comprehend life

A spider crosses my path,
its steps careful, calculated.
It pauses in my shadow,
uncertain whether to move forward or back.
We share this moment, the spider and I,
both caught in the web we did not choose,
each bound by the rules of our nature.

I do not crush it,
knowing there is no triumph in such an act.
But I understand, too,
that this same spider would show no kindness
to a fly ensnared in its silk.
And that is okay.
We all follow the scripts we are given,
finding our place in a world
that is neither cruel nor kind,
just indifferent.

We part ways, the spider and I,
it continuing its silent journey,
and I, mine.
In this fleeting intersection of our lives,
there is no victory or defeat,
only existence and its quiet persistence.

And as I watch it disappear into the grass,
the day carries on,
but the spider lingers in my thoughts,
a tiny presence that feels larger than it should.
It reminds me of the countless lives
we pass by each day, unnoticed,
each with their own silent battles,
each following the threads of fate
that weave us all into this tapestry.

I think about the webs we spin,
invisible to the eyes of others,
and how often we find ourselves
trapped in the strands of our own making.
How many times have I, too,
hesitated in someone’s shadow,
uncertain of the path ahead,
wondering if I should move forward
or retreat into the safety of the familiar?

And yet, like the spider,
we press on, driven by something
deeper than thought,
some primal urge to survive,
to persist despite the odds.
There is a strange beauty in this,
a quiet resilience that speaks
to the core of what it means to be alive.

Perhaps, in the end,
it is enough to simply exist,
to find our place in the world
not through grand gestures or triumphs,
but through the small mercies we offer,
even to those who cannot fathom them.
If I can shape the world,
if only for a moment,
into something resembling kindness,
then perhaps the indifference
is not as vast as it seems.

When did I start running from the silence between words?
Filling the moments between with anything to pass by another swing of the pendulum.
Tick Tock, Tick Tock, why do I hate the hands of the clock?

Time passed…
Now a mirror sits at the front of my eyes
My reflection, inescapable.

The journey travelled has forged me anew,
Yet often I find myself an axe, wielded as a sword.
It begs a thought past horizons and into sunsets
With a shimmer that hides the wonder of distant futures.

Is a blade a blade because it looks so,
Or because it cuts?

Life is a collection of small moments, and within them, we find the essence of our existence. I’ve learned that comfort comes not from a place of constant joy but from an understanding that emotions, like the tides, ebb and flow. The key is acceptance; of sadness, of anxiety, of the inevitable uncertainties that life throws our way.

I now realize that healing often comes from unexpected sources, in acts of stillness, in the appreciation of simplicity. A cup of coffee, a walk in nature, reading under a big willow tree; all these carry the power to ground us when the world feels overwhelming. I’ve learned that it’s okay to pause, to take a breath and acknowledge that being alive is itself a victory.

I’ve come to see that comparison is the thief of peace. Life’s paths are varied, and each of us moves at our own pace. By detaching from expectations and external validation, I find a more authentic form of contentment. Resilience doesn’t mean being unbreakable but understanding that we are allowed to be soft, allowed to lean on others when needed. There is strength in vulnerability, in admitting our fears and imperfections.

Ultimately, life isn’t about grand gestures but about how we treat ourselves in the quieter moments. It’s about nurturing our inner peace, about forgiving ourselves when we fall short, and about recognizing that we are enough as we are, in this moment. The journey toward peace is ongoing, but in each step, there is the possibility of grace.

—

In moments small, life shifts and flows,
With highs and lows, as each day goes.
Embrace what comes, both joy and pain,
For nothing stays, and change remains.

In simple acts, in quiet rest,
We find the calm that serves us best.
The cracks we bear, the flaws we show,
Are where the seeds of growth can grow.

We walk our path at our own speed,
No need to rush, no urge to lead.
In softness, strength, in stillness, care,
We’re enough, just as we are, right here.

— Sincerely, Boris