Postcards to Myself

Thoughts between the roads

Sometimes I don’t write texts,

but little postcards.

To myself.

To the one I was.

To the one I’m still becoming.

From places where I stop –

for a breath,

a thought,

a piece of presence.

They aren’t messages, not really.

More like traces.

Moments that insist on being written down

because they need to go somewhere –

not to an address,

but into awareness.

Postcard from the road without a destination

There are paths that don’t lead anywhere —

they just keep going.

I’m on one of them today.

No plan, no end in sight,

only the wind that keeps changing its mind.

I’ve stopped looking at the map.

Maybe sometimes you have to get lost

to find your way back to yourself.

If you’re reading this, remember:

Not every direction needs a goal —

some only need the courage to begin.

Postcard from Normandy

The air smells of salt and history.

I walk through narrow streets

where the wind clings to old stone walls like worn-out laundry.

Everything is quiet here,

yet full of life that once was.

I sit by the shore,

watch the dog run,

and think:

Let every wave carry away

what you no longer need to hold.

Postcard from Brittany

Today the sea was silent.

Only the seagulls knew what they wanted.

I picked shells for you —

in case you ever start searching again.

You’d laugh at how little I need now.

And maybe understand

that it was never the sea calling me —

but the silence after.

A friend once told me:

When the sounds outside grow quieter,

you start hearing your own voice again.

Postcard from the night

The road is empty,

the sky heavy.

Only our breath

and the soft hum of the tires on asphalt.

We sit in silence,

each lost in our own thoughts.

I think of all the nights

I believed peace could only exist

when everything stood still.

Now I know:

it lives in movement, too.

In the driving on,

while the world sleeps.

In the narrow beam of light

that shows just enough for now.

Postcard from Andalusia

The light here speaks its own language.

It flows over walls,

hides in the pines,

glows in dusty streets.

I sit in the shade

with coffee and the dog,

watching the day unfold

without hurry.

And I think: what is happiness?

Is it something you reach —

or something that simply sits down beside you?

Postcard to the one who stayed

Sometimes I see you in the rear-view mirror,

in gestures that still remember you.

Sometimes I talk to you quietly,

as if you were sitting in the back seat.

You’re not gone.

You’ve just become another kind of home —

one carried in the heart,

when you’ve driven too far to turn back.

These postcards are not a look back,

but a conversation with the now.

A whisper from afar:

Stay awake, stay open, stay on your way.

Listen to what comes.