Falling

There is a moment just before the fall where time forgets to move. Where you are neither holding on nor held. It’s the still breath before motion decides to be more than doubt, when the weight of the world slips off your shoulders Letting go isn’t loud. It’s the silence of wings not grown, the slow ache of trust in something unseen The grip loosens, not from weakness, but from the silent knowledge you were never meant to carry it all. Letting go is not the same as giving up. It is the soft rebellion of the soul against the weight that was never yours. Falling is not descent. It is a return. A return to wind, to breath, to the rhythm of things you stopped listening You are not breaking. You are becoming— a shape unbound from control, Letting go, becomes a freedom you didn’t know was waiting As the wind carries you On its wings