We name the days
as if that grants them order.
We chart the stars,
but forget
that the sky is not obliged to speak.

The future does not unfold
like a map.
It resists lines,
laughs at the compass,
refuses the weight of intention.

Even thought,
with all its scaffolding,
cannot build
what has not agreed
to exist.

We search for patterns
not because they are true,
but because we are afraid
of meaninglessness.

And yet-
there is a strange grace
in not knowing.
To walk without guarantee,
to hope
without demand,
to greet the next moment
not as a promise,
but as a question
still becoming itself.