My soul is chronicled through the dance of gusts of wind and the cacophony of overcrowded rooms. It’s etched in the burnt tastebuds of bitter experiences, the chapped fingers of perseverance, and the warmth that colors my skin. Each bump and bruise become a part of me, absorbed by the weave of my memory. The past spreads across my consciousness like a thin coat of blood beneath my skin, an indelible mark of the moments that have shaped me.  Time may have the power to heal, but healing does not erase the passage of time. It lingers, a bittersweet reminder … Continue reading Existence …