A wave hits the shore—
Not to break it,
But to remind it how to bend.
The Apartment with the Locked Window
He hadn’t opened the window in weeks. Not because he didn’t want to, but because it felt easier to keep the world out. Outside, the city pulsed, people moved, life continued. But in here, it was still. Controlled. Contained.
When the feeling came—the heavy one, the one that sat in his chest like a stone—he did what he always did. He straightened the books on his desk. He washed the same cup twice. He let the kettle boil, then cool, then boil again. Small things. Meaningless things. Things that gave shape to the shapeless.
Some days, it worked. Some days, it didn’t. But still, he kept moving, even if only in circles.
The Rituals That Keep Us Afloat
There are things we do, without thinking, when the weight becomes too much.
- Walking without a destination, just to remind ourselves that we can move.
- Organizing shelves, drawers, anything, because order on the outside can quiet the inside.
- Playing the same song over and over, as if the melody might anchor something deep and drifting.
- Writing words that don’t make sense, just to get them out, just to make them real.
Not solutions. Not cures. Just small lifelines. Just enough to get through the next moment, and then the next.
The Window, the Air, the Moment That Passed
One night, without thinking, he reached for the latch. The window groaned open, stiff from being ignored. A breeze slipped in, carrying with it the scent of something distant—rain on pavement, warm bread from a bakery still open late, the faintest trace of the ocean miles away.
He closed his eyes. Breathed in.
The weight hadn’t disappeared. The thoughts hadn’t unraveled. But something had shifted, just enough.
And for now, that was enough.
life 
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