The Quiet Transparency of Things
There is something deeply mysterious in how the world holds itself in fleeting
forms, something in the very fabric of things that hints at their ephemeral
nature.
Our bodies, the leaves on trees, the rocks underfoot,
all appear solid, but with each breath we sense something slipping through,
something almost transparent in the act of being here, as if all things are but
temporary guests in their own forms.
The things of the world are as a breath, as light caught on water, visible for a
moment but always on the verge of becoming something else. To touch anything—a
leaf, the skin of a loved one, the earth itself—is to feel it silently withdrawing,
giving itself over to time, dissolving even as it is encountered. And we too, are part
of this delicate alchemy of transience, forever becoming, forever disappearing.