Lifted

entry twelve — scattered light, fractured grace: a quiet archive of light, loss, and what remains.

There is a moment, early in a few blessed summer evenings, when the heat—the oppression—sighs and lets go.

Not in protest, but in quiet surrender—the sun lingers, the sky softens, and a hush moves in with the rain.

Steam rises like incense from the bones of the earth.

You’ve felt that coveted shift.

It’s not loud. Not showy. Just the heaviness loosening its grip on your ribs as breath returns without warning.

This is how some battles end—

Not with victory, but with survival.

Not with a roar, but with a breeze.

No fanfare—just rain through fractured light, and the ache leaving your body before you even know it’s gone.

What remains?

A field of yellow flowers—bent but blooming.

Tired, but free.

And air that smells like something holy—finally lifted.

catacosmosis // 2025