White knuckles on a rope tied to what runs wild.

The horse that won't return, the love that turned to stone.

You think your grip means something. You think holding on is strength.

But the universe moves like water through your fingers, like wind through empty rooms, like time through all your plans.

The horse will run. With or without your bleeding hands.

So choose:

Flow like rivers to the sea, or break like branches in the storm.

What was never yours to keep was never yours to lose.

Open your hands. Find what remains when you stop trying to hold the world still.

Peace.

Waiting in the space between your palms.