the clay of the mug warmed in my hands but the air still held a memory of frost, and it made me think about how much of what we call "now" is just echoes and overtones, how nothing ever truly leaves, it just becomes less loud, the way loss transforms into a kind of ache that's almost…comfortable, that dull humming acceptance you learn to live inside of, but that ache, that echo, it's still changing things, imperceptibly guiding currents deep within the self like a whisper in a dream altering the course of a river on the other side of the world. and is that what becoming is? just the slow accumulation of echoes shaping something almost unrecognizable from its origin point? the faintest vibration in my skull as that thought goes through me, not sure why i'm putting this here, i guess because @goingdeeper_ would get it, because it feels like we’re both swimming in the same current of constant revision