Under the Arch
Under the arch, you feel that time is stopped. The world becomes quiet as if we know that there is a space occurring between what it is and what it can be done. It doesn't matter whether you have stone, ivy, ivy, steel, or imagination - something changes when you come. For some time, they sieze and breathe.
One arch has its sign. It holds weight. There is a space. It make you to move, but the house also reflects. The lovers kissed under the arch, the warriors marched, and the dreamers stopped looking back before they enter where they didn't know.
I used to stand under an old arch in a forgotten part of the city. The bricks and the story were buried. But I could feel it - memories crowded with the wind, ghosts of laughter, farewell to the cracks were sewn in. It wasn't just an architecture. That was a threshold. How it asks you: "Are you ready?" before moving forward.
Perhaps we have all the arches in our lives - the moment when we climb above our heads, gently bend around us, and ask us to make a choice. Let go. Please remember. It will become. And when we come to you, we don't just go - we're transformed. One step forward, then another step, but somehow they are not exactly the same.
You'll be waiting a little under the arch. Sometimes peace. Sometimes it hurts. But always, always aisles.