Fragments of Cassandra

This morning,

I watched my tea
teach me something
it had no intention
of saying.

Across its surface,

small constellations
of cream
wandered slowly,

curling into themselves,

each one certain
it had finally
become still.

Then I took another sip.

The whole universe
began again.

Clouds unraveled.

Rivers found new directions.

Shapes I had already
grown attached to
quietly surrendered

Nothing was ruined.

Only rearranged.

Again,
I drank.

Again,
the surface forgot
what it had just become.

And I wondered
how much of living
is mistaken
for losing.

Perhaps we spend too much time
mourning
the patterns
that disappear,

never noticing
they only vanish
to make room
for another kind
of beauty.

Tea left untouched
will always settle.

Its surface
will eventually learn
the dangerous comfort
of certainty.

But certainty
has never taught
a river
how to reach the sea.

Perhaps peace
was never meant
to be stillness.

Perhaps it is the quiet confidence
of knowing
that every interruption
is another invitation

to become someone
the last version of you
could never have imagined.

So I will keep drinking.

I will keep disturbing
the surface.

I will keep choosing
the small discomforts
that refuse
to let my soul
grow stagnant.

Because life,
I think,

asks us
to become fluent
in beginning again.



Be’ahava,
The Mourning Bird