Where the Dream Finally Lies Down
This is the moment the river chooses stillness.
She reclines as though the journey has been completed—not ended, but fulfilled. Nothing pulls at her now. No current asks her to follow. What once flowed around her has softened into quiet presence, settling into the calm intimacy of being allowed to remain.
There is tenderness here without fragility. A softness that exists only after strength has proven itself unnecessary. Her gaze holds the patience of someone who has already been witnessed by water, by memory, by time—and found no need to perform ever again.
She is not drifting.
She is kept.
The dream exhales around her, folding itself into linen and light, knowing that nothing essential will be lost by resting. The river has become something internal now—slow, warm, unafraid of stillness.
And in this pause, the dream does not fade.
It settles.
Where the Dream Finally Lies Down
This is the moment the river chooses stillness.
She reclines as though the journey has been completed—not ended, but fulfilled. Nothing pulls at her now. No current asks her to follow. What once flowed around her has softened into quiet presence, settling into the calm intimacy of being allowed to remain.
There is tenderness here without fragility. A softness that exists only after strength has proven itself unnecessary. Her gaze holds the patience of someone who has already been witnessed by water, by memory, by time—and found no need to perform ever again.
She is not drifting.
She is kept.
The dream exhales around her, folding itself into linen and light, knowing that nothing essential will be lost by resting. The river has become something internal now—slow, warm, unafraid of stillness.
And in this pause, the dream does not fade.
It settles.