Sediment

Years settle like silt— fine, imperceptible, until you're drowning in a finger's depth.

The canyon keeps time differently: layer by layer, confession by stone, the earth writing its autobiography in rust and red.

I am learning to read what the light refuses to say, how shadows accumulate their own kind of weight, how memory hardens into something you can hold—hollow and heavy— against your chest.

Nothing disappears. It only deepens, becomes geology, becomes the quiet pressure of all you've survived pressing down and holding you exactly where you stand.