Sometimes I sit and watch,

not from above,

but from the same dust and breath.

People move like waves —

salt, fire, lemon, light.

Each one breaks, returns, and tries again.

When I write, I see no saints, no monsters —

only fragile beings,

holding storms in their chests,

and still searching for peace.

I am one of them.

I write to remember

that even in our imperfection,

we still shine.

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