On the Art of Almost Falling Apart : Notes From My Journal
☁️ There are days when the sky wears its sorrow so delicately, one might mistake the heaviness for softness. It stretches itself across the horizon, a tapestry of reluctant greys, threaded with faint, reluctant light -- as if even the sun, today, is uncertain of its place. I have always admired the sky’s quiet endurance. How it carries its grief openly, yet never quite collapses under its own weight. I wonder if that is the art of survival: to be full to the brim and still remain intact. When people ask if I am well, I find myself tracing the shape of the clouds, searching for answers in their unfinished sentences. I reply, "I am managing," which is simply another way of saying: I am holding storms the way the sky does -- without spectacle, without relief . There is a particular kind of ache in occupying the middle ground -- between breaking and enduring, between what I reveal and what I will carry quietly into the next morning. Some skies never clear. Some stories are never...