The pressure to conform
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Within ancient stone ruins, snakes coiled around forgotten altars Their scales glistened with the dust of memory Worship takes many forms
Across the valley, cranes drifted through morning mist Their wings split quiet into halves I watched, holding stillness like a borrowed language
I watched two birds fly in different directions, and for once it didn’t feel like a metaphor. It just felt true. That not all things need to align, that not everything needs to be going the same way to be okay. Sometimes what matters most is that you’re flying at all.
Being busy isn’t a personality. I want to be intentional, not just occupied.