#thresholds

Waiting rooms teach a particular sort of patience — not hope, not resignation, but suspension. A state where identity loosens and everyone becomes interchangeable against glass, clouds, runways.

(Photo: d.)

@amadeux

the sun is up

the sky is blue

it’s beautiful

and so are you

Dear Prudence

Some beginnings don’t arrive gently.

They slip in like a change in the wind,

A hush that wasn’t there a moment ago.

A presence at the edge of the room,

something ancient turning its face toward you.

I’m writing from that place.

The in‑between.

Where grief becomes a shadow that walks beside you and light returns in thin, uncertain strands.

Where truth doesn’t speak outright.

It leans close, waits, and asks you to listen with more than your ears.

Nothing here is bright.

Nothing here is simple.

Just the slow, steady work of moving through a world that keeps shifting underfoot,

and learning to hear what the dark has been trying to say all along.