Wit Enough to Wound,
Not Enough to Heal. Content Warning.
Darkness covers all around, but who said that it is meant to be feared?
My mind feels like a blank canvas from a distance. Quiet. Empty. Easy to misunderstand. But when I look closer, I see scattered washes of color—bits and blots of water-painted shapes, overlapping and unfinished. They look like fragments of many miniature drawings. Each one holds meaning, yet none of them explain the whole. Sometimes I think that if there were time, we could open them one by one and try to understand what they’re saying. I know it wouldn’t be possible to sort them all, but at least we could try. But I forgot—you have no time.
