There are years when everything begins to dry — not only rivers and lakes, but thoughts, gestures, even desire. The air grows heavy with waiting. You start to listen for something beneath the surface, a murmur that might still mean life. Sometimes the earth teaches you by disappearing. It cracks open, slowly, and what you thought was solid begins to move. What breaks is not always lost; what erodes is sometimes only making space.
There are depths we never reach — hidden waters that exist beyond the reach of thirst. You can spend a lifetime walking above them, unaware that they are there, holding you up from below. We are shaped by what recedes: the tide, a memory, the warmth that once filled a room. Erosion is not only loss; it is the quiet work of time giving form to what remains. Somewhere under the dryness, something still moves — patient, unseen, waiting to rise again.
