Past and Present
2026-01-19
The past does not return, it drifts.
Like breath left on cold glass,
like light remembering a window
that no longer exists.
It moves through the present as a quiet tide,
touching the edges of thought,
softening the boundaries between what was
and what dares to be.
It speaks without a mouth,
asking without words,
offering the illusion of wholeness
in fragments shaped like yesterday.
The present stands in the narrow corridor of becoming,
holding the weight of two horizons,
one made of ash and echo,
one made of air and unnamed distance.
There is a moment,
thin as a heartbeat,
where surrender feels like rest,
where stillness pretends to be peace.
But the future does not grow in rooms filled with ghosts.
It grows in open ground,
where memory loosens its grip
and light is allowed to fall freely.
So the present steps forward,
not with certainty,
not with defiance,
but with a quiet refusal
to become a museum of its own wounds.
And the past, finally,
becomes what it was always meant to be,
a river behind the eyes,
never again the sea.
By Jo K.