The Soft Corner

Sunlight streaming onto a messy bed with crumpled white sheets, two pillows, and a distressed wall in the background. Next to the bed, a small wooden box with magazines and books, a potted plant in a basket, and a glass of water.

I stand at a crossroad. But really—there’s only one way. I lean not on my own understanding, like a sheep who needs a shepherd. I’m not the captain of this boat. I die daily to the self society sculpted—picked, pruned, burned, blamed, and painted into fear. I will move not on impulse, but by instruction. Like a piece in His hand on a board He already sees the end of. Not checkers. Not chess. Not guesswork. But something positioned—-not for the win, but for His will.

On a line, we add words. Carved from the lightest boxes and the deepest rivers. They flow from my essence, stretching across the lines that once held my silence, we write. we turn. we return. Carving out words from the lightest boxes and the deepest rivers—they flow from my essence. Line after line until the lines become art, and the art becomes memory, and the memory becomes message.