A ripple on water—
Not lost, just moving deeper,
Dissolving into flow.
The Small Apartment with the Leaking Faucet
The faucet dripped. A slow, steady rhythm, as if the room itself had a pulse. He had meant to fix it weeks ago, but now, he barely noticed it.
Because right now, there was only the page.
The typewriter hummed beneath his fingers, keys clicking like raindrops against glass. Words spilled out, half-formed, stubborn, resisting him at first. But then something shifted. The hesitation vanished. Sentences began to chase each other, ideas stacking and collapsing like waves on a shore.
He didn’t check the time.
He didn’t hear the sirens outside or the footsteps in the hallway.
He didn’t even notice that the coffee he made an hour ago had gone cold.
There was only this.
This strange, fleeting moment when he wasn’t thinking about himself at all.
The Vanishing Act of Flow
Some things make you disappear in the best possible way.
- A blank page filling with words you don’t remember writing.
- Kneading dough until the world shrinks to the weight of your hands.
- Running until your breath and heartbeat become the only language you know.
- Playing a song where the notes seem to play you back.
There are moments when the self dissolves. When the mind stops watching itself, stops narrating, stops questioning.
You aren’t a person doing something.
You are just the doing itself.
And it’s only when you step away—when the song fades, when the last line is written, when the dough has risen—that you realize you had vanished completely.
The Faucet, the Keys, the Silence That Follows
The words slowed.
He leaned back, stretching his fingers, suddenly aware of the room again. The faucet was still dripping. The coffee, untouched, had formed a thin film across the surface.
The world had returned. Or maybe, he had.
And for the first time that day, he breathed.
life 