The flow of life, at times, is similar to a puddle. Stagnant. Seeping slowly down in a drain. There’s hope that it eventually sashays itself into the vast meaningless void of the ocean. Brooding through motions of mundane.

There’s a wait for rain. The one that comes with a thunderous roar. Pushing through the openings, clearing blockages and jumping into the same ocean to fill it with meaning.

The flow remains the only change. Everything else is constant in the equation of life.

Gushing downwards with a force isn’t the goal. There’s a calm in ease too. Like a friendship where you don’t have to talk. Silence is flow too. Not controlled. But, flow with ease.