Scroll.
Refresh.
Again.
Faster.
Again.
Faster.
The wheel does not sleep.
It does not ask why.
It turns.
It spins.
And turns again.
I run beside it --
Palms open wide,
Eyes open wide,
They BURN.
I swallow dust.
I choke on air.
And still,
I keep pace.
I chase what will not stay.
I chase what kills me.
And still —
I love it.
But at the edge of my sight
A familiar shape --
Stone.
Wood.
A hand
Unmoving.
The wheel shudders.
He does not.
The lights thin to nothing.
He does not.
Only a glimpse --
And it is enough
To make me stop spinning
I reach for ink
My hand steadies
My pulse slows
My eyes calm
I do not tremble
Ink falls.
The ink moves.
I am no longer burning.
The ink moves.
I am no longer running.
This is not noise.
This is prayer.
Black into white.
Breath into silence.
I remember —
He knelt once
And wrote in dust.
I remember —
I loved the wheel
And it loved nothing.
He stretched out His hands
He did not pull back.
So I let the ink fall
Slow —
Like mercy
Slow —
Like blood
Not chasing,
Not burning,
Only
Remaining.
