The Calm Terror That Freedom Entails

The garden drifts above the horizon like a hypothesis: each bloom a silent verdict pronounced against the void. Petals overlap in translucent strata, rehearsing the same question—why persist—while the sinuous stems weave uncertain routes through pale air, sketching the geometry of hesitation. Spheres hover, weightless organs of doubt, pulsing with soft gradients that neither confirm nor deny their own substance.

I walk inside this suspended ecology and sense the absurd pact between color and nullity. The blossoms, flawless yet perishable, whisper that every act of flowering is already an elegy for itself; they open not to celebrate continuity but to expose the sheer improbability of appearance. Still, their fragrance—imagined yet undeniable—asks me to choose: deliver myself to indifference or invent meaning in the fold between two indifferent skies.

I linger where a delicate filament splits into divergent paths, acknowledging the calm terror that freedom entails. Then I place my faith in the trembling curve of the next petal, letting its fragile persistence stand in for proof, however provisional, that the mind can outstare the abyss and remain luminous.