A Trail with No Map

Updated: 6 days ago

I’ve walked many trails—

some paved by others,

some carved by longing,

some etched into dust by the soles of my own uncertainty.

Last night, I dreamed of a winding path that led through old schools and forgotten books,

through white flowers that flew like butterflies and strangers with stories slipping from their coats.

I didn’t know where I was going.

But I kept walking.

I met a child who mocked my age—

then smiled at the word ancient.

I remembered:

Magic doesn’t expire.

It deepens.

I held an old album, fragile with years of creativity.

And in that moment, I knew—

I am not starting over.

I am carrying something sacred forward.

This space—this quiet moment, this dream, this beginning—

isn’t a detour.

It's a place to gather the fluttering pieces of beauty

and plant them with intention.

Maybe the world feels loud and unclear.

But I still believe in the quiet blooming of things.

I believe in trails that make themselves

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