Sight

To see what holds me —
not myself, but what surrounds me,
what precedes me,
what exceeds me.

A pale imitation
is already an offering.
It means I’ve seen something real.
Something vast.

Not the human figure,
but the current it swims in.
Not the body,
but the breath that passes through.

To imitate, even clumsily,
is to admit:
“You are there too.”
It’s a form of reverence,
even in broken syntax.

As I pay closer attention
to what meets me from outside,
my images begin to shift.

They no longer ask who I am.
They ask: how do I belong?

The act of revealing
becomes less about identity,
and more about relation.

A balance begins to appear —
shaped not by control,
but by openness.

This, maybe, is what beauty is:
not harmony imposed,
but a rhythm received.

My practice, once impulsive,
becomes ritual.
A melody breathed
into the tempo of things.

Not just a self,
but a “we,”
spoken without speech.

And what this “we” meets,
sooner or later,
is the world’s refusal.

A resistance.
Felt.
Named.
Lived.