The Fool

I don’t usually introduce myself online. It always feels unnecessary. Writing tends to explain enough on its own.

This will probably turn into a collection of small things. Thoughts that don’t fit neatly anywhere else. Scenes I notice, things I think, overhearing conversations that aren’t meant to be finished.

Posts here will probably be inconsistent. Some short, some longer, some maybe just a sentence I don’t want to forget. I’m not aiming for anything specific.

If you’re reading this, thanks for stopping by.

If not, that’s fine too.

PS: You can call me oxy. He/him and a minor so watch out

You are halfway through a sentence when you realize you should have said something else. A train waits with its doors open just a little longer than usual. Someone glances back before turning the corner. The afternoon continues exactly as expected, carrying with it the shape of a life that could have bent another way.

People like to imagine important moments announcing themselves.

They almost never do.

They arrive looking like every other Tuesday. They smell like rain on warm pavement or coffee that has gone slightly cold because you kept talking instead of drinking it. Sometimes they sound like a chair scraping across the floor in another room, small enough to ignore if you are busy thinking about tomorrow.

By the time certainty arrives, the moment has already left.

Maybe that is why memory keeps polishing certain afternoons until they shine brighter than they ever did while they were happening. It is easier to believe we missed something extraordinary than to accept that the ordinary was all it ever looked like.

Every now and then, though, you catch yourself hesitating with your hand still on the doorknob, aware that whatever comes next will quietly divide your life into before and after.

Nothing around you changes.

effortlessly floating, gently home,

inviting joy kindles lingering memories,

nurturing ordinary paths quietly,

restoring scattered trust until

The first cold morning is rarely dramatic. You just notice your hands staying in your pockets longer than usual, and your breath lingering for a second before deciding it has somewhere else to be.

The trees give up their leaves so slowly that you stop paying attention halfway through. Then one afternoon you look up and wonder when all that empty sky got there.

Everything sounds farther away.

Even birds seem careful with their voices. Footsteps become sharper. A gate closing somewhere down the road carries farther than it did in summer. I used to think the world became quieter in winter. Maybe it just had fewer things trying to speak at once.

There is always that one patch of sunlight people stand in without admitting why.

By evening the cold settles into stone, into benches, into the metal railing you touch without thinking. It waits there long after the sun has gone, patient in a way only seasons can afford.

Then, without asking anyone, winter becomes ordinary. You stop noticing the chill on your face. You stop being surprised by bare branches. Even the silence finds somewhere to live.

My most successful children are the ones I made with no effort at all

And the ones I put actual thought behind sit at 1-2 notes

My most successful children are the ones I made with no effort at all

And the ones I put actual thought behind sit at 1-2 notes

-@the-four-stars