There is a stillness that moves through you,
not the stillness of silence, not the absence of motion,
but the deep hum of completeness, endless and unbroken,
like the pause between waves where the ocean forgets itself,
where the tide neither arrives nor recedes but simply is,
vast and unmeasurable, holding the world in its breath.
You, too, are held, though you do not always know it.
You wake with the weight of incompletion pressing against your chest,
a shadow that bends with the arc of your longing,
and you call it desire, call it need, call it the name of another.
But the weight is not something missing;
it is the fullness of what you already are,
so infinite in depth that it feels like emptiness
when pressed into the smallness of this life.
Do you see it now? The way everything that matters
carries itself into the past the moment it is touched?
You are a hand raised to a flame,
an instant of heat, then the memory of fire.
The graduation, the ribbon-cutting, the rent paid,
all dissolve into that immutable stream of what has been.
There is no clinging to it. There is no holding.
This is the gift, though it feels like a loss—
the certainty that what is done no longer needs you.
You have chased so many futures,
believing they hold something you lack,
but have you noticed how completion never lingers?
How the thing you desired so fiercely becomes ordinary
the moment it arrives, already moving out of reach?
The house, the job, the lover—
all become threads you’ve woven into a tapestry
that will someday hang in a room you no longer enter.
But this moment, this eternal now,
it holds everything. It does not let you go.
You are not apart from it,
not a fragment trying to sew itself back together,
but the thread itself, unbroken and infinite,
spooling through the loom of time without end.
What is left to desire when you see this?
What is left to chase when you know
that no man, no woman, no object of longing
could ever make you more or less
than the endless, vibrant stillness you already are?
Even now, in the midst of your longing,
you are complete,
threaded from the infinite
and stretched into this fleeting moment,
not to finish it, but to feel it,
to marvel at the way it trembles in your hands
before it is gone.
You are here not to fix what was never broken,
but to hold the thread for a little while,
to let it sing as it passes through you,
and to let it go when it becomes the past.
This is the way of all things:
the thread moves on,
but the stillness remains.