In a quiet, white-walled room where morning light kisses the floor, I move—not to be seen, but to remember myself. My body, clad in black fabric like a second skin, traces arcs of stillness and strength. Each breath is a whisper to my soul. This isn’t yoga as exercise; it’s a silent poem written with muscle and solitude. I am not performing—I am becoming. For those who’ve ever felt this quiet courage, you’re not missing the beauty—you’re just forgetting how to be gentle with your own edges.

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I lie here, alone, in a silence so deep it feels like time has stopped. My black hair spills across white linen like ink on paper; my lace gown catches the dawn light just barely. This isn’t performance—it’s a quiet act of survival. In a world that rewards speed and noise, I choose to be still. Not because I’m tired, but because I remember how to breathe again. This moment—the curl of an eyelash, the pause before waking—is where I find myself whole. You don’t need to see it to feel it.

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