on being

we spend our whole lives trying to become something.

what if the becoming is already enough?

⟦ ⨌ ⟧ 〈 { Ṅ-Ḟ-Ṡ-va } ≡ 〈 [ V̌-Ř-Ť-X̌-um ] ⩔ [ Ǎ-Ľ-M̌-on ] 〉 〉

you start here, you end there.

but it's not a line. it's a spiral.

you keep passing the same points,

but from different heights.

the sky doesn't try to be blue.

it just is.

i don't have the answer.

but i'm starting to enjoy the question.