Some people are addicted to chaos because peace is unfamiliar.—Unknown
The calendar circles something close. I don’t mean to wound—only to tell the truth: we’re speaking across a distance we built, one line at a time.
You said, “We need to have a conversation.” It lands like corporate speak, a eulogy before the body’s even cold, before we’ve come down enough to feel it.
In my world, conversation has another name. The hour for talk feels over. The hour for doing is here. Just do. Or don’t. Either we chase this, or we don’t. Either we are together, or we’re not.
It feels like the options have thinned, but that isn’t a reason to stay.
We were once a vessel—one of a kind. We liked what we saw in the mirror, in each other’s eyes, in the glow. Time showed the hairline fractures. Some were always there; we looked past them. Some are new. Some from our own hands. Some from what we keep returning to. Some from the people we love who can’t love this version of us.
Do you still love the vessel? Or do you just like knowing it’s there— waiting on the table, gathering heat, dependable as hunger?
What are we doing about the cracks?
There’s a practice I keep returning to: kintsugi—breaks filled with gold, fractures honored, the flaw turned visible and holy.
Let’s try that. For each other. For ourselves, for the other. Clean hands. Clear eyes. Beautiful. Kind. Maybe it would finally quiet us— no more conversations, just two people sitting in silence, held together, with nothing left to say.
BB Grey--musings 
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