The scroll. The routine. The days that blur together like water that forgot how to move.
Safe. Predictable. Forgettable.
These aren't waves. These are ripples.
And ripples fade before they mean anything.
You've felt it before. That rare moment when something cuts through the noise and actually reaches you. When warmth arrives in the middle of winter. Real warmth. The kind that finds you in the coldest season and says: I know it's dark. I brought light anyway.
Not the easy warmth of summer that arrives when everything is already alive. Winter warmth. The warmth that shows up when it matters and reminds you what it feels like to be alive.
Most of life doesn't feel like that. Most of life is ripples.
But the depth exists. The warmth exists. It's always been there, waiting below the surface.