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Between Selves

A quiet, dreamlike garden in late autumn—softly overgrown, with golden light filtering through bare branches. Fallen petals rest on rich, dark soil. In the center, a handwritten journal lies open on a stone bench, its pages fluttering in the breeze. The atmosphere is still, sacred, and tender—like the earth is listening.

A quiet, dreamlike garden in late autumn—softly overgrown, with golden light filtering through bare branches. Fallen petals rest on rich, dark soil. In the center, a handwritten journal lies open on a stone bench, its pages fluttering in the breeze. The atmosphere is still, sacred, and tender—like the earth is listening.

This Garden Is Not Withering

People hear Withering Gardens and think it’s about decay. But I named it not as a monument to death, but as an act of reclamation. To wither is not to fail. To wither is to rest. To return. To root.

May 20, 20252 min read

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