I. The Premonition
There are moments that do not announce their gravity—
a look, a breath, a turning leaf—
yet in their quiet articulation,
they carry the architecture of fate.
As if time, weary from logic,
curves gently into intuition,
and what once felt undecided
suddenly becomes inevitable.
II. The Unspoken Grammar of Being
No syllogism, no theorems of cause—
only the grammar of alignment.
When eyes meet, or minds clasp
in the silence between syllables,
the soul recognizes a mirror not fashioned
by hands, but by histories long unspoken.
It is not coincidence.
It is orchestration
too complex for the conscious mind to compose.
III. The Fractured Clock
Chronology surrenders—
seconds bend around meaning.
What should take years may unfold in a breath;
what once was distant,
a stranger from another narrative,
arrives suddenly in the marrow of your story.
When it is right,
time obeys something older than itself.
IV. Resistance as Ritual
We resist—of course we do.
We craft doubts like armor,
forge questions like spears:
Is this sustainable? Logical? Deserved?
But rightness is not polite.
It does not always wait for readiness.
It insists—gently, unrelentingly—
until resistance becomes reverence.
V. The Still Point
In the heart of the storm of choice,
there is a stillness that neither asks nor answers.
It simply is.
Like the hush before snowfall,
or the soft, warm defiance of spring
breaking through the frost.
When it is right, it does not persuade.
It simply waits to be recognized.
VI. Echoes in the Spine
The body knows before the mind consents.
A tingling in the fingertips.
A breath that feels like home.
The unnamable sense that this—this—
was etched into the blueprint
before language learned to walk.
And perhaps what we call destiny
is simply the body remembering its own path.
VII. Benediction
So let us not confuse chaos for wrongness,
nor ease for truth.
Rightness is not the absence of struggle—
but the presence of symmetry within it.
It is the thread that binds
even when we fray.
The whisper that returns
even when silenced.
The note that hums truest
when we stop searching for a song.
When it’s right,
it’s not perfect.
It’s real.
And that, above all else,
is the only certainty we may ever need.