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There are days when the sky feels too vast to be silent.

When the wind brushes past like a whispered reminder —

that none of this is random.

I look up and see the clouds,

soft and slow,

shifting like thoughts in meditation.

And somehow, they mirror something deep in me —

a softness, a memory,

a quiet knowing that I, too, belong

to something far greater

than this single breath.

Faith is not a rule I follow.

It’s a rhythm I feel.

It pulses through the soil,

through the silence between stars,

through the miracle of thought and dream.

There is a superpower —

not in the way we define control,

but in the way love defines presence.

A force that etched the curve of the moon,

and planted imagination in our hearts

like seeds of infinity.

I cannot name it fully,

but I know it is there

in the way hope returns —

again and again —

even after the darkest night.

It’s in the endless signs:

the symmetry of wings,

a moment of tenderness from the world,

the way art touches what words cannot reach.

No, we are not accidents.

We are echoes of something sacred.

We are stitched into the fabric of the seen and unseen.

I am the soul of the soul

of the nature

of the tangible and intangible

surrounded whole.

And that is enough.

More than enough —

to believe.