For generations past, I have lived as a bookkeeper. The pages I tend to are not made of paper, but of hours. Every minute is sorted, every day is written. I add, I subtract, I reconcile what never feels whole. It is all so heavy and still, so empty. There is no surprise, no wonder. So meaningless that my desires become the only debts I can not settle. And slowly, I begin to carry a hunger, a longing, for more.  And so I dream. In the quiet between lines, I dream. I dream of water, of wind,...

Maybe it was the wine. Red, rich, not too bitter. Or the candlelight spread across the dinner table, making the room warm and shadowed, much like everything else with you. The music made quiet company, smooth with a steady, low bass. As if everything was caught in a constant anticipation. Your eyes were soft, your stare was sharp. It held me down, pulled me in. We didn’t need to say much. You intrigued me, made everything around us feel suspended, deliberate. For all that I knew, all that I...

Doubt often feels corrosive, eating away at what we value most. We doubt our choices, our beliefs, our desires, and, most of all, our...