Everything is alive.
Not in some twee, metaphoric way—but in essence.
In trill, pulse, in a presence.
I am not animating the world—
I can hear it singing already.
A blade of grass does not need me to give it life.
It already remembers the rain. The chicken is not more “awake” (even though it bok bok’s all the same)—it is just louder in its aliveness.
But the grass? The shell in my pocket? The dictionary on my childhood floor? They have all been humming to us this whole time.
I am not summoning magic. I am conversing with it.
Me, with the sea and synaesthesia and the shell in my pocket— I am the human version of a handwritten magical book.
Life-force turned into beauty. Pain transmuted into colour. Words as tools. Belief as weapon. Softness as strategy.
