After The Train Window
A moving city can still leave behind one still image, and sometimes that image is enough to carry the whole day.
I like the kind of image that arrives accidentally: a reflection on the glass, a row of buildings briefly washed in late light, someone waiting on a platform with no idea they have become part of another person's memory.
Travel does this quietly. It rearranges attention. Things I would have ignored at home become precise and luminous in motion. A bench. A handrail. The color of a wall passing by at speed.
Perhaps memory is not built from major events as often as we think. Perhaps it is built from fragments that remain because they were never asked to perform.
Continue reading
More pieces that belong to the same slow conversation.
La Luce
I write here to hold a thought a little longer than usual, to let it breathe before it disappears into the noise of the day.
For The Quiet Hours
Some words arrive only after midnight. They do not explain everything, but they stay beside me long enough to feel honest.