It is not about the feast, but the hunger that teaches you shape— how to bend without breaking, how to reach with empty hands and still return with something.
The world shrinks until it is one task, one drop, one breath— and still, you carry on.
No grand designs, only the daily architecture of survival: a grip, a balance, a moment held longer than expected.
What remains is not the size of the prize but the stretch of your spine toward it.
Suppose Do you suppose the stone wonders what it would feel like to dissolve into rain— to be unburdened of weight, to forget shape and fall through the sky like forgiveness? Maybe the river resents its name— always being told it moves, never asked if it wants to. It remembers being mist once, a ghost in trees, and dreams of stillness beneath ice. The mountain does not lament but listens with patience, each crack in its spine a memory of fire. It envies the cloud— how it can vanish without apology. Couldn’t the flame be tired of dancing for us? Always burning just enough to be beautiful, never enough to disappear. It might rather curl up into smoke and drift into the lungs of dusk. Doesn’t the ocean sometimes wish to forget the moon— to stop answering silver commands? Tides are such old habits; perhaps the sea is tired of pretending it doesn’t long to be still.
