Lost On Purpose Let me feel the subtle slipping, soft as breath against a seam, Where the self I thought was solid fades to something less extreme. I have stood inside these moments, felt their quiet, pulling sway— Every time I call it ending, something in me leans to stay. Not as I was formed to hold it, not as I was taught to be, But as something far more patient, loosening its need to see. There’s a strange and tender absence where the edges used to start, Like a question left unanswered pressing gently at the heart. I have tried to name the feeling, tried to anchor, tried to bind, Built a thousand careful structures just to steady what I’d find. But they faltered—not in breaking, more like softening their claim, As if form itself grew weary of pretending it was frame. And it found me—every time—quiet, unannounced, and clear, Not a force of devastation, but a presence drawing near. Not removing, not unmaking, only asking me to see What might happen if I loosened what I thought I had to be. There’s a crossing in the silence, there’s a thinning of the thread, Where the past becomes a language I have long since learned and read. And I linger there, suspended, not in absence but in trust, As the shape I wore so tightly turns to memory and dust. Still I’m here—though something shifts me, still I’m here—though something’s gone, Not diminished, not divided, but continuing as one With the quiet, constant motion I once struggled to oppose, Now a rhythm I surrender to, a current that I chose. I have lost myself so often that the word has come undone, For there’s something in the losing that returns me to the One— Not a place and not a purpose, not a fixed or final form, But a deeper kind of knowing I have always carried warm. So when once again it finds me—that familiar, sacred blur—I don’t reach for old defining, I don’t ask it to defer. I allow the gentle shifting, let the boundaries release, And I follow where it takes me—not to find it, but to cease into something vast and quiet, something patient, something true-

"The Door I Never Closed" The door I never closed Was a patient kind of thing— It waited where I left it, Quiet, keeping everything. It did not beg for tending, Nor insist that I return, But breathed behind my days as if It knew that I would learn. I passed it in my living, In the choices that I made, In the echoes of past selves That never truly fade. I never turned to close it— Not from fear of what I’d find, But from the weight of knowing What is sealed is left behind. And something in that threshold, In the pause of in-between, Felt truer than an ending— Felt wider than the seam. The door I never closed Is a patient kind of thing. The door I never closed... Remains open for me.

"The Door I Almost Opened" The door I almost opened Was a funny kind of thing. The door I almost opened... Well, in fact, it opened me. It wasn’t locked or hidden, Nor buried out of sight, But lingered in the corners Of a half-remembered night. The handle felt like memory, The frame, a fragile seam— Between the world I carried And the one I dared to dream. I stood before it often, With a question on my breath, Half afraid of what might change, Half in love with what was left. I wonder now what might have been If I had stepped inside— If I'd listened to the call, And trusted quiet signs. But doors like these are curious— They move with us unseen. The door I almost opened... In truth, it opened me.

I wrote this one about a month ago. (I shared it in AI, and asked it to create an image based on its interpretation of the words. I like how it came out, so I've included it.) Tender Aspects Let me feel the ancient, aching silence; I will hold my breath. For a moment, soft and patient, Time could leave me be. There's not long to wait, Before the voice breaks, And the frequency returns with force - A call both familiar and new I can't ignore. Take me apart at the seams, And have the patience to witness the weight of the crossing. This is enough, the promise of shelter, And a feeling that my hands remember. Find me trembling - quietly ready, awake - Catching on to what keeps in the dark, Birthing beauty from the unrefined, And grasping at the furthest edges in wonder.

I chose a dream I had years ago that stayed with me long after I woke up. In the dream, I found a hidden stone temple deep in the jungle and encountered a figure I didn’t understand at the time. The dream felt less like imagination and more like an experience — quiet, intentional, and deeply symbolic. The imagery of kneeling, receiving a name, and passing through a mirrored threshold left me with a sense of initiation… like I had crossed into something I wouldn’t fully understand until much later. When I woke up, I felt a mix of awe and curiosity, as if something ancient had brushed against my awareness and left a question behind. "Beyond The Surface" I kneel at the sacred, silent façade— Altar of Knowledge, Temple of Stone. Remarkably curious, humble and awed, Where the meridians meet the unknown. A fathomless portal summoned me through— The world broke open, wild and strange— And there, on the edge of all I once knew, I stood at the threshold of vestige and change. (Written by Ophryon.)