There are days when my words grow heavy and distant, and even I struggle to hold their meaning. It’s as if these hands are not my own—only instruments for something hidden deep inside—a voice long silenced, now breaking free in fragments. Still, I hold onto the hope that a day will come when the weight will lift—when sunlight breaks through the endless sea of clouds, and I will find the strength to write of gentler things again. Until then, I’ll let these ghost hands shape their voice, hoping that with each word they release I will feel a little lighter and will bring me closer to peace. M. | March 2025

There are days when my words grow heavy and distant, and even I struggle to hold their meaning. It’s as if these hands are not my own—only instruments for something hidden deep inside—a voice long silenced, now breaking free in fragments. Still, I hold onto the hope that a day will come when the weight will lift—when sunlight breaks through the endless sea of clouds, and I will find the strength to write of gentler things again. Until then, I’ll let these ghost hands shape their voice, hoping that with each word they release I will feel a little lighter and will bring me closer to peace. M. | March 2025

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