On the Art of Almost Falling Apart : Notes From My Journal

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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 told.

But both remain,

beautifully,

nonetheless.

— Sabani Das 

🌌Note : I didn’t plan to write this. Some days, the sky just feels heavier, and I find myself wondering if we all carry a little bit of that weight in our own quiet ways. This piece came from that place—somewhere between holding on and letting go.

Thank you for reading. I hope, in some small way, these words sit beside you like a soft companion on the harder days.