Sage.

I close my eyes and disappear sometimes, in a cloud of cleansing sage.

Quiet my chaotic mind, I vanish without a trace.

As apprehension subsides, I find myself in a daze; set adrift in bliss,

I resurface in some foreign place.

There, my spirit is softer, less splintered by the machinery of thought. My nervous system loosens its fists, and every burden I’ve carried for too long falls soundlessly to the floor.

In that suspended hush, I am no one’s enemy, not even my own.

The ghosts that pace the hallways of my body grow tired, sit down, and finally stop speaking over one another.

For a moment,

I remember what it feels like to be housed gently. To inhabit myself without bracing for impact. To breathe without borrowing panic from futures that haven’t happened.

Then slowly, as all rituals must, the smoke thins.

The room returns.

The world knocks again.

But something holy lingers— a reminder that peace is not a myth, only a practice; and that even I, with all my storms, am still capable of becoming calm.