Dissolution

The moment splits like water finding stone— edges scatter, reflections bend. You reach and it becomes a verb, something that was, now dissolving into the space between knowing and forgetting.

A shape emerges from the fog: a hand, a voice, the particular weight of afternoon light pressing through the window frame. But touch it and it frays. Even your own name feels borrowed from a stranger.

We call this living, this slow unfastening. The world continuous, your attention like confetti— small, bright, falling everywhere and nowhere. Sometimes you catch a piece before it settles. More often, you watch the drift.

There is comfort in the scattering. To know you cannot hold anything means everything returns eventually as longing, and longing is a way of being present with what you've already lost.