In the field, between worlds

I’m standing here now… somewhere between joy and overwhelm. The grass is soft under my feet, the air finally turning cooler — that gentle hush of Khareef creeping in, just like it always does. A breeze brushes past, soft as a whisper, and I look up to see the moon watching over it all. Still. Constant. Bright.

I’m a new father. A provider. A husband. A man with dreams. A man who used to write, who used to create freely, and now finds his hands full — not just with tasks and deadlines and bills — but with life. A tiny heartbeat I helped bring into this world. My child.

There’s beauty in it. In the chaos. In the stillness that somehow coexists with the noise. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss a part of myself — the part that could just sit and pour feelings into words, frame a shot with the morning light, or lose track of time over a blank page. That part feels distant now, like a memory from a past version of me. Or maybe just… paused.

But maybe this is part of the story too. Maybe creation doesn’t always come from stillness. Maybe it also comes from struggle, from the quiet ache of wanting to express but not having the space. From love that’s too big to hold in, even when you don’t have the energy to shape it.

Tonight, as I stand in this field, the moon above, the breeze whispering its secrets through the trees, I remember: seasons change. This one — this moment — is a chapter. One I’ll look back on one day and realize it held more inspiration than I could see at the time.

I might not be writing every day. I might not be posting or painting or planning. But I’m living. Fully. Deeply. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the kind of creation that matters most right now.