Aubade

You may not have meant to arrive here. Perhaps something in you paused—between lists, between calls, between one day folding into the next. No grand reason. Just a quiet stillness.

There’s a rhythm beneath all the doing. Not slower, not faster, just yours. It has never left. Even when softness is forgotten, when your body waits at the back of the line, it waits with you.

This space isn’t here to change you. It doesn’t ask you to stop. It offers what has always known you—something ancient, something quiet, like warm water through tired hands.

You don’t need to name it. You don’t need to earn it. Simply let it be near. A breath not bound to a task. A pulse untouched by urgency. A moment that asks for nothing but your presence.

You may forget these words tomorrow. You may not remember visiting this space at all. But that’s fine. Some things stay, not because they’re remembered, but because they’ve already moved within you, like sunlight through a window you hadn’t noticed.

And when you need it, it will rise again—just as it always has. It waits not for your return, but for your stillness, to remind you of a rhythm you’ve always known.

The work, the tasks—they will continue, the world will keep turning, but in this moment, you are held. Not in perfection. Not in pause. But in your natural flow.

And when the world presses too close, you will remember this space, and it will soften you again. You don’t need to grasp it. It has already found you. Quiet, real, yours. And still, you move.