Flightless

In that suspended breath between the earth and the infinite azure, the soul casts off the heavy garment of its clay, and one knows a liberation akin to the falling of a tear into the sea—it is complete and without trace of effort. The wind, which was once a barrier, becomes the very breath that holds you aloft, a lover's whisper carrying the scent of distant mountains and forgotten prayers. There is no triumph in the absence of struggle, only a deep, resonant knowing that you belong utterly to the space around you, neither rising nor descending, but eternally being in the boundless, silent grace of the Creator's own outstretched palm.