In the beginning, it felt like pouring water into a desert.
No response, no echo, no trace.
Whatever I made was absorbed instantly,
as if the ground itself refused to acknowledge that I existed.
But stopping felt more dangerous
than continuing without meaning.
Silence would have swallowed me faster
than failure ever could.
So I kept pouring.
Over time, a faint line appeared on the surface.
Then another.
Small marks accumulating with no promise
that they would amount to anything.
Eventually those lines began to stack—
not into success or clarity,
but into a kind of stratification.
A quiet record of persistence,
layered the way earth remembers pressure.
What these layers will mean in the future
is no longer my decision.
The climate of the viewers—
those who look, read, touch—
will determine what survives.
So I keep pouring.
Meaning or no meaning,
this is simply the shape
my unevenness takes.
