In the Cycle of Existence

We rise from shadowed whispers, born in the trembling breath of chaos. Fingers claw at the edges of beginnings, hungry for meaning, yet startled by the weight of being. Time spins its web— messy, relentless, achingly beautiful. We are tethered and untamed, dancing to a melody that breaks and mends us all at once. Love finds us, not gentle, but honest, shaking the dust from our ribs, reminding our hearts that warmth is worth the burn. Loss follows like a quiet echo, a hollow sound in the bones— it teaches us the art of letting go, and we become its reluctant students. The world breathes through us, wild and unyielding. It sings in storms and whispers in stillness, asking us to remember: we are both the calm and the chaos. Death does not arrive as an ending, but a doorway into the unknown. It cradles the weary, spinning them back into the soil, where roots carry their laughter forward and leaves hold the memory of tears. The cycle is not gentle—it never was. It is raw and aching and alive. But it is ours— a story told in spirals, a symphony of scars and light. So we move through it, imperfect and divine, holding hands with chaos, learning to forgive the breaking as we bloom, again and again.