whats the rush

I let my gaze rest on nothing in particular, the way evening rests on the curve of a windowsill. There is no need to chase tomorrow.

A breath comes - unannounced, unforced and leaves the same way.

I am here: in the soft weight of seeing, in the almost-closing that is not sleep, in the space between effort and letting go. Life does not ask to be carried all at once. Only this moment, held lightly like a feather on a quiet gaze.