Musings

When I finish weaving a story, a quiet magic seeps in. Having shaped every moment of the tale, deciding it's fate with each stroke of my pen, that control lingers--and suddenly, my real world feels alive with potential. The ordinary air around me buzzes faintly, as if whispering that I'm o longer bound by the usual rules. That power settles into my bones, steady and unshakable, lifting me up. In those moments, I'm not just a writer--I'm the architect of my own life, and it's that strength that hums through every step I take for hours into my regular day.