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We’re always searching for balance, but maybe balance is just the art of adjusting constantly.
I think the real flex is being calm when everything else is loud. That’s strength disguised as softness.
Beauty in patience.
When the background becomes part of the story.
I’ve started walking the long way home. It’s amazing what you notice when you’re not in a rush.
A heron carved psalms in air, its wings lashing commas into the syntax of sky. Watching it scissor through blue, I thought: freedom isn’t chaos—it’s calligraphy, arcs disciplined by wind, a grammar gravity can’t parse. Every glide a glyph, every feather a syllable spelling mercy mid-flight.
In mangrove twilight, mudskippers blinked across borders Water or land—they belonged to both, betrayed neither Some creatures evolve just by refusing to choose