The Hazy Ritual
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Now the lens is cracked, distorting rather than clarifying. What felt like expansion has contracted into a familiar, claustrophobic loop. The magic is tarnished.</p>
<p>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.</p>
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