ANCHORED, NOT ASLEEP

While the world was running—

burning deadlines, loud opinions, unfinished goodbyes—

she chose stillness.

At the bottom of an old tree, by the riverbank,

she let the earth hold her.

Roots pressed deep beneath her spine,

as if the tree knew what she carried

and decided she didn’t have to carry it alone.

The sun found her gently.

Not the kind that demands attention,

but the kind that kisses the skin

as if asking permission.

It lingered—warm, reassuring—

as though to say you are still here.

The wind knew better than to rush.

It moved carefully through her hair,

a soft caress,

mindful of the ache she hadn’t named yet.

It didn’t try to wake her.

It didn’t try to fix her.

It simply stayed.

Around her, life continued—quietly loyal.

Sparrows stitched songs into the air.

Monkeys watched from a distance, curious but respectful.

Somewhere nearby, deer moved with the grace of those

who know fear

and still choose gentleness.

She rested beneath the tree

like a secret the world was never meant to rush.

"She was not waiting to be saved—she was resting, while the world forgot how to be gentle." 

Later, when the clouds gathered above her—

thick, endless, floating like forgotten dreams—

they did not weigh her down.

They lifted her.

From above, the noise softened.

The loneliness loosened its grip.

Perspective arrived quietly,

the way truth often does

when no one is demanding answers.

She smiled then—small, unguarded—

not because everything had healed,

but because she had.

"And when the clouds finally lifted her high enough

to see the world from above,

she smiled—

not because the loneliness vanished,

but because it no longer owned her."