It moves slower than thought, softer than intention. It doesn’t rush to become anything. It curls. It lingers. It reminds the air how to be gentle.
I follow its lead.
Breath stretches. Time loosens. The sharp edges of the day blur into something manageable. Not gone — just quieter. I don’t disappear here. I arrive in pieces, gathering myself from wherever I’ve been scattered.
The room inhales with me.
The room exhales what I no longer need.
Smoke becomes a language between my body and my mind — translating sensation into calm. It doesn’t give answers. It gives space. And in that space, I feel myself settling deeper into my skin.
This is not numbness.
This is listening.
I let the moment expand without demanding meaning. I let stillness exist without guilt. I let softness be enough for now.
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