Everything was exploding quietly. Not into endings but into becoming. Colors tearing themselves open, light spilling out of places that once felt asleep. And there was someone standing still in the middle of it all, just watching.
No fear. No need to stop it. Because some things only some alive when they break apart first.
There is something strangely beautiful about witnessing chaos bloom into movement. About seeing the world wake itself up through destruction, through pressure, through impossible collisions.
Maybe explosions are not always violence. Maybe sometimes they are the soul refusing to remain silent. And maybe the observer is not separate from it at all. Maybe the one who watches is already burning too.
