Hey, kindred souls! I’m Abigail. I am an old soul with a fondness for hefty tomes and cinnamon tea. I write on topics such as the value of art, the struggles of being human, and the ways to sight beauty in a torn world.
May you find words of light and space to ponder in this haven of hope.
As I gazed out my car window one summer evening this week, I was confronted with how full the world is of activity, of movement. I passed little houses and claustrophobic apartments, sheltering the heads of people unknown. I glimpsed men and women walking, sweeping, talking, reading, engaging in quiet routines. Windows radiated with warm…
How does one say goodbye well? As I prepare to move to another city (an island, to be specific) and another school, this question courses across my mind. Even after years of moving from dwelling to dwelling, I am still in the process of finding the answer. Places and houses — physical entities — are…
I remember cloud-watching as a six-year-old — on the field in front of the school I went to. I recall lying on my back, gazing at the movement of the clouds. Wondering in awe at their rapid motion, their transience of form. They spiraled above me, coursing beyond my view. To a certain extent, I think…
It was only recently that I fully cognized what a sunrise entailed. The sun’s fingers slipped through my window, dappling my wall with dim light. At their sight, I felt an odd sensation of sorrow. Were not these the same rays that had woken me every morning for what felt like centuries? My mind stretched…
The room was dark, claustrophobic. Faces, flushed with awe, and voices, lilting with eagerness, undulated across the room. A man sat in the corner, hidden from view. The awful sounds, noises even fastened doors could not contain, crowded him. Like a knife, they pricked his skin. A chasm had cleaved between him and the others.…
I glanced out of the window, my eyes absorbing the Malaysian foilage and swaying flowers. Summer winds, for it is always summer, rustle through the trees, stirring the leaves to a soft waltz. Butterflies pirouette through the air, flaunting wings of ivory, ebony silk, deep amber, and pale yellow. A question transpires in my mind:…