The Breath of Chaos
Whispering Orders among Raucous Systems
There exists a kind of silence on stormy mornings, where the air buzzes, not prayer nor denial, but something wagerable, real.
Systems fracture, dance, and build around us every day like tide pools—oceans reduced to stingray tempests, brittle shells of broken glass ensconcing fragile anemones.
Butterflies beat their wings not once, but many, and tucked between their beats lie the distances of their migration, hidden, perpetual, breathing in the rhythm of heartbeats, breaths shifting like air smoothing over the faces of Richelieu and metaphor scaling complicated equations of erosion.
Hidden orders like sediment beds washed in shades of soft nightmare curated in temporal reflexes.
Further Reflections
How do calamitous diaries of understanding shape the slight edge of ordinary on understanding's gradient?
Seek solace within transformation and interim details here.
Reflection and Impermanence
Every concern itches towards stasis in a world propelling onward; however poignant and clear the present glimmers in illusion's rapid fade. Pause before a puddle.