The Year of Weightlessness

I was once a believer in formulas, until I became the only variable.

Perfection collapsed from within, like cracks spreading silently through ice on a window.

Everything that once made me who I was: order, reason, faith in the right path,

In the silence, split open with cracks that could never be mended.

I suddenly saw clearly: the ruins were never anywhere else. They existed only in the gaze that looked upon my own brokenness.

Survival is not about rebuilding a perfect shell,

but about recognizing, in the countless facets of a prism,

the outline of a self that was already incomplete.

Some things, once broken, can never be undone or healed. You can only carry them for the rest of your life.

And true courage

is bending down among the fragments

to salvage, for yourself, an entire sky of tilted stars.