Hй™yatim Жџllй™rimdй™ Page

But then, a shift.A voice—not from above, but from the marrow of my bones—reminded me that the keys were never lost;they were forged in the heat of my own palms.

I asked the silence for a map.I asked the shadows for a reason to stay.I sat in the middle of a room I builtand cried because I felt trapped by the walls. HЙ™yatim ЖЏllЙ™rimdЙ™

Depending on what you had in mind, we could go a few different ways: But then, a shift

I spent years looking at the sky,waiting for a hand to reach through the cloudsand rearrange the wreckage of my days.I treated my life like a borrowed coat,complaining about the fit, the fraying edges,the way the cold seeped through the seams of my indecision. It is a terrifying weight, this sovereignty

It is a terrifying weight, this sovereignty.To realize that the "destiny" I blamedwas just the dust I refused to sweep.My hands are scarred, yes.They have fumbled, they have gripped ghosts,they have been empty for longer than I care to admit.