The Weight Of
“The Weight Of" I. The Soft Openings I am the kind of person who can cry over a panda and a cat sharing a bowl of sunlight, two creatures that don’t even speak the same language but still understand the vocabulary of gentleness. That kind of softness does something to me It opens a door in my chest I didn’t even realize I’d locked to survive. Some days, wonder sneaks up on me like a child tugging my sleeve saying, “Look. Look at how beautiful the world can be.” And I do. And I break a little. And I heal a little more. II. The Weight of the World But being sensitive I mean really sensitive is a job with no clock-out time. I watch the news, and the hurt of strangers clings to me like smoke in my clothes. Every headline is a prayer or a warning, and I carry both because my soul doesn’t know how to travel light. I feel the tremble behind every mother’s voice, the shaking in a city after sirens stop, the quiet of a community trying to remember how to breathe again. And I wo...