The ritual begins. A familiar choreography of preparation, a twisted sacrament. Once, there was a spark — thoughts unfolding like soul manifesting blooms, the mundane transformed into marvel.
The world shifted, colors bleeding into brilliance. It was a lens revealing hidden patterns, a key to unlock the secrets of the cosmos. Or so it seemed.
Now the lens is cracked, distorting rather than clarifying. What felt like expansion has contracted into a familiar, claustrophobic loop. The magic is tarnished.
Yet, the ritual remains. I find myself drawn to the trivial — a spider’s web glistening with dew, the patterns of dust motes caught in a sunbeam. These fleeting moments, crowned with false significance, become the justification.