Sometimes it has no name.
No face.
Nor wind direction.
But it stays,
still,
like a strand of light that does not go out
amidst the smoke.
It does not shout.
It does not sing.
It only flickers in the folds of weariness,
and you follow it
like one who follows a thread
in the torn fabric of the world.
It is a tremor without an earthquake,
a root growing in the crack
while everything around it splits.
And you don't know why,
or where it comes from,
but something inside whispers:
hold on.
Because maybe there is a way
in the chaos that you don't see yet.
A day when pain doesn't spit out
upon awakening.
A laughter without reason,
a place without vertigo.
And it is not certainty.
It is not promise.
It is lighter than that.
It is the suspicion that the impossible
has not spoken its last word.
So you remain.
Even if the body hurts.
Even if the hours slide
like fingernails on an old blackboard.
You remain.
Because something - nameless, formless -
tells you that there is more.
That it's not all yet.
That even winter
doesn't always remember
how to be ice.