What you create…
does not require an explanation of itself.
It doesn’t need to convince, convert, or justify.
It just needs to exist. Quietly, softly—
like fog curling through trees
or dust dancing across old floorboards.
Like light through ancient glass,
sacred, but unflinching; gentle, but resolute.
A whisper with weight,
in that space exists everything—
beyond the reach of articulation.
Silence is a presence, as much as an absence.
Holy.
Haunting.
Both leave their imprint.
You are free to feel
without having to be felt back.
Free to present
instead of perform.
Free to sit beside your own silence,
and know that it understands.
Because your creation…
exists.
catacosmosis 