There are moments in life when we must begin again — not because everything behind us has vanished, but because it no longer speaks the same language. What once defined us becomes heavy, immobile, and we feel the need to move beyond it — not in rejection, but in acceptance. Change rarely happens in the light. It begins in silence, in the slow erosion of what we thought would last. We start to see how everything we carry — places, memories, fears — leaves a residue. And it is through that residue that we begin to understand who we are. To start anew is not an act of forgetting; it is a way of giving shape to what remains.
What we leave behind does not disappear — it transforms. It becomes texture, shadow, foundation. Even in loss, something endures, waiting for its next form. There is beauty in that passage — the fragile instant when absence turns into possibility. In learning to let go, we make space for what has not yet been named. 93.42 is not a story of departure or arrival. It is a meditation on the quiet strength it takes to shed what no longer lives within us, and the strange, delicate hope that comes when we do.
