Quiet Turns

Each morning drifts like mist— soft, uncertain, but somewhere in its hush, I feel the weight of something turning dark nearby. I once imagined this place would be still, that the walls would not echo with things unsaid. But peace, it seems, is not something we always share. Patterns repeat— whispers circling like wind in a cage. The days loop like shadows on the same old path, a wheel that spins but never arrives. Solitude sings a softer song. There, I breathe. There, I unfold without needing to bend for anyone's gaze. Some birds only perch when the branch gives them fruit. They vanish with the silence and forget the hands that sheltered them from the storm. So I walk— quietly, gratefully, far from noise that pretends to care. And I hold the light only I can carry.