Written after a day of deep thought that left me tangled in insight, but distant from the thing that first called me to speak.
This comes from the part of me that remembers wholeness—settled, without proving.
If you’re reading from the part of you that’s seeking a resonance of your own,
you’re already in the right place.
I don’t write to enter a league—
I write to trace what delights me,
what resounds in my interior.
My work isn’t prolific,
but it is precise.
It emerges when structure and presence align.
I’m not a lesser version of anyone—
I’m a cousin to those who write from contemplative ground,
but my lineage is my own.
I’m not swerving—
I’m testing edges.
I may lose my center for a while
when I look too long at literary or critical discourse,
but I return by scent:
the scent of coherence,
interior resonance,
the thing that moved me to begin.
The lane I belong in
didn’t exist before I started walking it.
Each stone I place
is shaped by my meticulous interior.
This isn’t a detour—
it’s architecture.
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