The Hidden Journal

Joy doesn’t pull me upward anymore.
It pulls me inward.
Back to the body that’s learned how to stay,
back to the life that’s learned how to hold me.

───

It’s not the kind of joy that shouts.
It hums.
It lingers in the chest,
presses softly against the heart
like a memory that knows its way home.

───

There’s a gravity to it —
a pull toward what’s real,
toward what doesn’t need to be earned.
It gathers me,
quietly,
completely.

───

This joy doesn’t demand a reason.
It doesn’t arrive with applause.
It just is.
And when I let it be enough,
so am I.

───

The soft gravity of joy
isn’t about rising above the world —
it’s about returning to it
with open hands.

───

— Desiree