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What moves us

There is a motion beneath every thing, a quiet turning no one can command. It lifts the seed through dark soil, folds the leaf when summer ends, draws the breath in, lets the breath go never once asking our permission. It is why nothing remains, and why anything ever begins. We reach for names time, fate, spirit, chance but each word slides away like water through open hands. It was breathing long before language, and it will keep breathing after the last word falls silent. It is not cruel. It is not kind. It simply moves. And in the long wake it leaves we learn to cradle what we cannot keep, to open our fingers around what we cannot hold, to stand in the thin doorway between what was and what might still be and call that fragile space living. Every joy arrives only as a guest. Every sorrow stays just long enough to teach. Every moment is a tide that brushes the shore of us once and never returns quite the same. And still we reach, we build, we sing, we dare to hope, because something ancient inside us knows: the passing of things is not the death of meaning it is the birthplace of meaning. We are carved by what departs. We are widened by what arrives. We are carried forward by the same soft, relentless turning that drags the stars slowly through the night. This is the quiet truth beneath every philosophy, every prayer, every song ever lifted: Everything changes. And because it changes it matters.