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I walk the edge of an unwritten thought, where silence leans forward, listening, a place where half-dreams scatter like sparks from a fire you can’t see. Some days, the world feels stitched together with threads pulled from old laughter; other days, it unravels quietly like a sweater worn at the elbow. Still, I wander— through the hush before rain, through the echo of a name I almost forgot I loved, through the soft rebellion of wanting more. And in that wandering I find small truths: that hope is a stubborn gardener, that loneliness has a gentle voice, that poems bloom best where rules loosen their collars and let the heart breathe. So here I stand, palms open to whatever arrives – a word, a spark, a trembling line, and I welcome it like a long-lost friend returning with sparks from the place where the unwritten waits.
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Jan 12
Jan 12, 2026 at 12:31 PM UTC
The Hush Before the Word