The Unseen Thread

They say balance is a delicate hush,

 but the world shouts.

Many hold…

We are born into noise,

 neon clocks that never sleep,

 grief that clings like wet wool,

 ambition with teeth,

 gnawing at the soft underbelly of stillness.

Yin…

Tries to speak in the quiet between thunderclaps,

 but Yang is dragged into war,

 a blade sharpened by urgency,

 cutting through the stillness as if silence were weakness.

We build walls of certainty,

stacking bricks of ego and fear,

 until the horizon disappears and all we see is our own shadow.

But…

sometimes a feather lands on a puddle and doesn’t sink.

A stranger’s smile undoes a week of sorrow

 like a thread pulled from a tapestry

revealing the sky behind the weave.

And we remember:

Yin is the inhale,

 Yang the exhale.

Neither survives alone.

They are not opposites,

but interdependency,

lovers in disguise,

 folding into each other like dusk into dawn.

A possibility exists.

Balance is not a destination,

but a rhythm.

 a pulse beneath the chaos,

waiting to be heard.

If we listen, really listen,

we find that even the storm has a heartbeat.

And it beats in perfect time.