At birth, a thought is naïve.
At midlife, it is ridiculed.
In old age, it is mistaken for wisdom.

What ripens in silence does not seek applause.
It seeks density.

The thinker, like fruit in brine, grows sharp by waiting.
Not by adding more — but by enduring what already is.

We mistake fermentation for decay because we cannot tell the difference between motion and meaning.

But salt preserves.
And time, though cruel, clarifies.