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Here, I write in whispers. Not to be loud, but to be honest. Each entry is a flicker: a wingbeat of emotion, a fragment of something unfolding. I find comfort in the in-between: dusk over daylight, silence over noise, the slow beauty of becoming.
I don't know what it is: maybe the hush between raindrops, maybe the way thunder rolls like a distant memory. But something about gray skies makes the world feel softer, truer, more alive.
Rainy days slow everything down. The noise fades, the colors mute, and suddenly there's space to breathe. I feel most like myself when the sky is heavy and the air hums with quiet. It's in those moments that my thoughts wander freely, creativity stirs gently, and I find comfort in simply being.
There's a kind of magic in the melancholy: not sadness, but stillness. A pause. A cocoon. And in that pause, I write, I dream, I become.