Exhale

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

The sunset this evening caught my eye as I glanced up from the command prompt to rest my eyes.

“cmd —> DISM /Online /Cleanup-Image /RestoreHealth” be damned, I forgot the problematic machine.

I gravitated outside as though an unseen force beckoned me… and instead of me capturing a backyard moment, the moment froze me in place and then swallowed me whole.

It happened quietly, the way revelation always does: when the day was no longer sure of itself.

The horizon drew one long, trembling breath, and the sky exhaled light like a confession, soft and burning all at once.

For a few heartbeats, the forest became a cathedral. Oaks turned to stained glass, every vein of every leaf catching the final ember of the sun’s breath.

The air itself seemed to glow with a kind of surrender, as though heaven was remembering how to let go and reminding me all over again.

I stood beneath it, small but aware, suspended in that thin seam between the living, the leaving, and the memory of the already gone.

The colors didn’t ask to stay; they simply poured through the cracks of the canopy and into me, as if to say, “grace doesn’t vanish when the light fades. It only changes hue.”

When the sky went gray again, it felt less like an ending and more like an exhale finished.

And life went on…

catacosmosis // 2025