Year of Weightlessness

I used to be a believer in formulas, until I became the only variable. Perfection disintegrates from within, spreading silently like ice cracking on a window. Everything that ever built me—order, reason, belief in the right path— In the silence, cracks opened that could never be healed. I suddenly saw clearly that the ruins were never anywhere else, only in the eyes that stared at their own brokenness. Survival is not about rebuilding a perfect shell; But in the millions of cross-sections of the prism, Recognize the outline of yourself that has long been incomplete. Some brokenness is irreversible and cannot be healed, and can only be carried with you for life. And true courage, is to lean over the fragments, Salvage an entire tilted starry sky for yourself.