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There is a song that lives in the hollow of your collarbone. You cannot hear it with your ears, not exactly. It is older than language, that first vibration your mother hummed into the crown of your head before you had a name. It is the creak of the floorboard you know by heart, the specific squeak of a screen door that means someone is home .
That is your song. It has always been yours. It was waiting for you to be brave enough to let it out.
We spend our lives trying to sing it back.
So go ahead. Hum something. Anything. Even off-key. Even broken.
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There is a song that lives in the hollow of your collarbone. You cannot hear it with your ears, not exactly. It is older than language, that first vibration your mother hummed into the crown of your head before you had a name. It is the creak of the floorboard you know by heart, the specific squeak of a screen door that means someone is home .
That is your song. It has always been yours. It was waiting for you to be brave enough to let it out. There is a song that lives in the hollow of your collarbone
We spend our lives trying to sing it back.
So go ahead. Hum something. Anything. Even off-key. Even broken.