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I have noticed that hubris rarely announces itself. It does not arrive with a trumpet or a villain’s laugh. It comes quietly, dressed as confidence, speaking the language of experience. It says: I’ve been here before. It says: I know how this ends. And slowly,…
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By the time the last light drained from the sky and the valley withdrew into its habitual quiet, the question that had accompanied me all day had grown into something that demanded a fuller honesty. I stepped back onto the verandah with the photograph in…
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As the afternoon light softened, the day seemed to slow around me, and the question that had accompanied me since morning began to take on a more contemporary shape. It no longer belonged only to the photograph or to the ancient stories that had drifted…
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By late morning the question had settled itself into the gentle slopes of my thinking, neither demanding nor retreating, simply existing in a way that coloured the quietness of the day. I sat with the photograph again, noticing this time not the symmetry of the…
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The photograph slipped out from between the pages of a notebook I had not touched in months, landing with a soft, papery sound close to the verandah door. Morning light had just begun to stretch across the wooden floor, warming it in slow, amber patches,…
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