In the shallow light of early dawn, there is a gentle rhythm. The world pulsing slowly — heartbeats intertwined with quiet moments that speak without words.
a small wooden chair creaks under me, worn from years, silent stories whispered in its grooves. Outside your window, an old tree sways, a patient witness, comfortable in its cycle of becoming. It knows nothing of urgency; it bends then straightens, carrying peace in its branches. You envy that.
As your breathing aligns with the rustle of leaves, you wonder how much time has passed, not a concern but an observation. Like watching shadows crawl across the floor, revealing moments as they mark the sun's map through the sky.
The aroma of coffee steeps through, inviting hearth comfort. Each swirl of steam, a quiet embrace, gently brushing against the coolness of dawn awakening. There is nothing left to rush towards. Only this — a moment suffused with life quietly happening in measured tones.
Here’s a wish for those who take refuge in silence:
The chair begins to rock back and forth, creaking slightly under an old man now. Time’s prank. His palms rest over the weathered wooden arms, imagining stories held between fingertips released. Long-held narratives murmur, like a stream slipping quietly downstream — out of reach, yet always there, flowing gently in the depth of repose.