We walk through rooms with narrow, crowded halls and lean our weight against the weathered walls, while dreaming of a wider, softer space where kindness finally finds a resting place. The heart is a house where the tenants don't match, where anger sits guarding the lock and the latch, and right in the hallway, the sadness settles deep, a slow-moving river that never quite sleeps. Then hate builds a fortress of jagged-edged stone, a wall made of "us" and a wall made of "them" alone; it feeds on the friction, it thrives in the dark, waiting for someone to strike at the spark. But love is the floorboard, the beam, and the roof, the only thing constant, the only real proof that even in wreckage, we reach for a hand to build something better on shifting, gray sand. I wish you a life that fits like a glove, stitched from the fibers of stillness and love, where the sun doesn't glare, but leans in to greet the soft, steady rhythm of your heartbeat. May your anger dissolve like the mist on the lake and the sadness that sat like a stone in your chest be traded for feathers, and balance, and rest. I wish for the day when the shouting would cease and the friction of living would settle into peace, a love that is patient, a love that is true, that sees all the colors and wonders of you. I wish you the courage to just be enough, to let go of the jagged and let go of the rough, and drift on a tide that is merciful, blue, into the happiness meant only for you.