There are days when the page feels too quiet.
Not stuck. Not afraid. Just… open.
But this openness doesn’t feel hollow — it feels held.
By something unnamed.
Something not quite ready to rise,
but too real to ignore.
So I wait.
Not in anxiety — but in presence.
Because maybe the pause isn’t failure.
Maybe it’s the soul’s inhale
before it speaks something true.
We’re taught to fill the silence.
To produce. To prove.
But Found Soul wasn’t born from noise.
It rose from stillness.
From that quiet current just behind the sternum
that whispers,
“Even this nothing is becoming something.”
And so I listen.
To the space that isn’t broken — just waiting.
To the longing that doesn’t need logic.
To the part of me that feels like it’s been forgotten
— even by me —
and is slowly making its way back into the light.
Some days, I wonder if I’m doing enough.
If I’ve missed my moment.
If resting here means falling behind.
But then I remember:
The pulse always returns.
The rhythm reclaims me.
The breath I didn’t know I was holding… softens.
And suddenly, I’m not writing to keep up.
I’m writing to come home.
This entry isn’t polished.
It’s not loud.
But it’s real.
And for today, that’s enough.
With Warmth,
