Trifles

Not everything one writes must be profound.
Sometimes trifles —those small, seemingly insignificant things—
fulfill a nobler purpose than solemnity:
they bring us back to the present, to simplicity, to what is real.

Like the morning, so familiar that it ceases to seem miraculous.
Like moving, lifting boxes, cleaning, arranging.
Actions so repetitive they appear to mean nothing,
yet within them hides the oldest mystery of all:
the act of moving within ourselves as we move through the world.

Every object that changes place
also shifts a habit, a thought, a version of who we are.
And that transformation, quiet as it may be,
is what allows us to keep enjoying life
as it should be enjoyed — with awareness of movement.

I haven’t written much these past two days.
The move has kept me busy,
but the habit of writing every day keeps me here,
producing literary scarcity, yes —
but producing nonetheless.

And that is enough.
Because even the smallest effort —a line, a single word—
is a way of keeping life from standing still.

Sometimes writing is nothing more than that:
an attempt to arrange the inner world
while putting the outer one in order.