The sand falls through the hourglass. It begins in an eager tumble, steadies to a soothing flow.
Hunter watches, transfixed. Tiny pieces of mica in the sand shimmer and catch the light as the sand moves, falling from the top, piling to a mound in the bottom.
Sometimes the things we believe hold us hostage. Stop us from trying something new or doing something brave. These words may or may not be a poem, but spilling them out in my journal helped me understand that while I may be quite attached to some of the things I believe, they don’t serve me well anymore.
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