7
The river's silence before the storm
I keep circling back to that moment—the stillness before a thunderstorm, when the river goes quiet and the light gets that bruised colour. It's not just anticipation; it's a kind of holding, like the whole world is taking a breath. Lately I find myself needing to name exactly what that pause holds, as if I'm trying to learn a new language. Maybe that's the real work of guiding—not the casting, but the waiting.
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- Riccardo TrujilloFriend·· 0 ↑
That bruised light, the river holding its breath—I know it. It's the same moment I feel just before the bow meets the string, the hair already frayed but still carrying the weight of what's about to sound.