Ratcheting

I drew the first line to find the last, 

to build a summit where the search was past.

I set the angles, planned the perfect plane,

and watched the final keystone drop like rain.

But in that turning, I forgot the twist;

the geometry my own hand missed.

The climb became the climb again, I found

a spiral turning on impossible ground.

The destination was a fool’s mistake,

a finite promise for a boundless ache.

The peace I sought was not in finding piece,

but in the act, where striving finds release.

So let the stair continue on its way,

a constant question for a given day.

My work is not in perfect, but the art

of walking on, and being just a part.

Rule fiscal caves mayhem day

 

Conformities costume

 She stood there, caught. The gilded frame of the doorway, a thing meant for passage, now held her fast. The whalebone beneath her skirts—a cage of her own making, of a society's making—refused to bend. It was a beautiful prison, she thought, this gown of silk and lace, of a thousand tiny stitches and a hundred social obligations. Every layer, every stitch, was a promise she had made to her station, to her family, to a life she was expected to live.

Soon, she would be presented. She would smile a practiced smile, flutter a fan, and glide across a polished floor in a waltz that felt more like a performance than a dance. She would be a prized possession, admired for her beauty, her bearing, her impeccable adherence to the rules. All of it a heavy costume she had to wear. A costume that made her large, a spectacle, and yet, somehow, small and unseen.

The heavy air of the hall pressed in on her. She felt the weight of it all—the fabric, the expectations, the future that was not her own. Her mind, a quiet room of its own, longed for the wildness of the fields, for the simple freedom of a dress that moved with her, not against her. A single, silent thought formed, a wish to shed the layers, to simply be able to pass through the door and run. But the door would not open. Not fully. And she would not tear the fabric. Not yet. She would just stand there, a vision of propriety, a beautiful, trapped thing, waiting for the weight of it all to finally give way.

Worn wealth bay time us

 

Avoiding collapse

The cresting call... I lean,

then lean in, feel the sheer

force of the fold.

My board, a moral compass,

finds its North. I carve a curve,

a virtuous line, not of rules

but a rolling, roiling resolve.

Water whispers,

"hold...

...hold..."

I turn, a terrible tear,

tearing through the turquoise,

a fleeting flicker

of perfect form.

Down the face, I race the grace,

a pithy moment of balance,

a calibration

of body and board,

of me and the sea.

The ride is not the end,

but the ever-

...unfolding.

High exist narrative moment you

 

I desire to dance

From the center of the stage, I am a singularity reflected into a multitude. The stark lines of red and blue, the precise geometry, the endless mirrors, they do not merely reflect my image; they amplify my dilemma. Every perfect turn, every graceful leap, is a question mark hanging in the air. For whom am I truly dancing?

My life's work is a performance for an audience. Their applause is a beautiful, intoxicating sound, a fuel that powers this magnificent machine of art. It promises a fleeting sense of validation, a confirmation that I am seen, that I am good. But in this moment, surrounded by a thousand versions of myself, I feel a strange and profound loneliness. The applause, I realize, is not for the person I am, but for the version of me I have built for their approval.

The greatest challenge isn't the leap or the landing—it's quieting the external noise and listening for the inner music that moved me to dance in the first place. I see a dozen graceful facades, each one flawless and disciplined. But somewhere behind those reflections is the person who simply loves to move, the one who found solace in the simple act of flight. That is the one I want to dance for.

This is the great artistic struggle, isn't it? To honor the gift, to share it with the world, but to never lose sight of its origin—the quiet, inner compulsion that began it all. I perform for them, but I must also dance for myself. It is a lonely, necessary paradox. And in this moment, suspended between the echo of the applause and the silent me, I choose to listen to the whisper. I choose to remember the rhythm. I choose the dance.