The road isn’t rushing forward or pulling you back—it’s simply there, glazed with ice, asking for patience. The trees stand bare, not broken, just resting between seasons. Even the curve of the road suggests that clarity doesn’t always arrive straight on.
This feels like a pause that isn’t empty—
a breath taken after movement, before direction.
Not the past behind you, not the destination ahead,
but that in-between where you finally notice the cold air,
the weight of silence,
the fact that you’re still standing.
Being paused doesn’t mean being lost.
Sometimes it means the world has asked you to slow down
so you can arrive more fully
at whoever you’re becoming.
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