there is more truth in texture than perfection

I have never been interested in things that pretend they have lived untouched. The scratch on a table. The crease in a favorite jacket. The uneven edge left behind by someone’s hand. They remind us that beauty has always been a conversation with time rather than an escape from it.

We spend so much energy polishing away the evidence that life happened. We soften the edges until every story begins to look the same. Yet the things that continue to move us almost always carry a little history with them. They wear it without apology because they understand that character is something earned.