17/11/2025
When the weight of the world grows too heavy, when sorrow settles like a stone in the chest, there comes a moment when the heart can no longer hold it all. So it spills—quietly, honestly, through tears that fall not in weakness but in release. And in those moments, I imagine gentle hands beyond this earthly realm reaching out to catch each tear before it shatters on the ground. Angels gather them tenderly, as if every drop carries a story, a prayer, or a piece of a breaking heart.
They lift them to the sky where they become raindrops, falling not as sorrow returned, but as nourishment for the tired places of the world.
Those tears—my tears, your tears, humanity’s tears—sink into the soil and whisper life back into the roots that forgot how to rise. And in time, small flowers push through the earth: fragile at first, then brave, then breathtaking.
These blossoms stand as reminders that even pain has a purpose; that nothing given in truth is ever wasted. They show us that out of grief can come growth, and from despair, the beginning of hope. Beauty blooms not despite what we’ve endured, but because of it.
And in those petals—soft, bright, resilient—we remember that every sorrow held with grace becomes the seed of something new.
❤️🌏🇵🇭🇦🇺🇳🇿
