Drifting Without Origin, Without Promise

The morning unveiled itself as a bloom of improbable colors—petals of vaporous pink and sulphur yellow, drifting without origin, without promise. I stood before this quiet explosion and felt the usual tremor: the shocking realization that harmony is always accidental. Between the blotches of cobalt and the quivering violet thread, I discerned no design—only the patient indifference of matter arranging itself into momentary grace. Yet in that indifference I tasted freedom. If the world refuses to mean, then each hue becomes a possibility, each errant dot an invitation to revolt against the dull arithmetic of purpose. I surrendered to the luminous chaos, letting its softness erode the tyranny of reason, and in the fading stipples of turquoise understood the secret of serenity: to insist on living brightly, even when the universe has no need for our light.