Slow Returns

The weekend moved slowly, as if time itself is affected by the cold of winter. I found a way to be productive without pushing too hard — a bit of writing in the warmth of a local café, where I also met a kind couple from England studying an hour away.

All in all, it was a good weekend. Small steps forward, taken while still carrying the weight of the past — which at times feels like a river of mistakes flowing relentlessly toward the future, always trying to pull you back under.

That will not be happening.

Instead, I will continue working toward a deeper understanding of myself and of structure. This way of thinking, this way of living, feels natural now — less forced, more aligned. It keeps my attention where it belongs.

It’s Sunday night. A good book is waiting. I’ll let the words of others carry me into sleep while quietly preparing for another week of slow, deliberate movement — still searching, still listening, still open to whatever might make me whole.

The scattered parts of myself, the ones that felt lost to distant places, seem to be finding their way back. Slowly. Without noise or announcement.

It’s a quiet process — one I didn’t realise I needed, but one I’m grateful to experience, day by day, piece by piece.