Mind
Heart
Hand

A folding inward.

The soul contracting beneath the weight of what cannot return.

And somehow, in that quiet fracture, beauty becomes sharper than before.

Not balance. Never balance.

Only the pendulum moving between exaltation and collapse.

A life measured not by stillness, but by the rhythm of its extremes.

The moment the walls of the self begin to dissolve.

Gravity loosens its grip.

And the impossible suddenly feels light enough to carry.