Pursuit of freedom

I/ ROCK BOTTOM

Folded into herself like a fallen star bruised by gravity, she sits against the heavy wall, arming a fragile shield against the cold.

The red bricks whisper of battles fought, of love lost and anger burned into stone.

Her bare feet kiss the earth in quiet surrender, while her eyes, those stubborn, searching eyes refuse to fall.

Above the ache, above the silence, a thread of hope still pulls her gaze upward.

She is not broken, only resting at the bottom of the world, where the only way left to move is toward the light.

II/ WHAT IF

She sat still, wrapped in a robe of morning, listening to the hush of her own reflection.

The mirror held no lies today, only the soft weight of questions: What if you are stronger than you feared? What if the door was never locked? What if the light has been waiting for you, all along?

In the hush of that golden crack, where a door breathes open to a different world, she sees it, the trembling edge of becoming.

Though her hands still tremble, and the past still clings, her eyes do not flinch. They are steady, they are ready.

III/ SERENITY

She sits where the silence speaks, a flame flickering low but steady, like her.

No spotlight, no stage, just the hush between breaths and the quiet thrum of her own knowing.

The pages whisper without words, not because they are empty, but because she is full of stories, of questions, of becoming.

The candle does not rush the dark, and neither does she. The figure reads slowly, because this time, she writes herself in.

IV/ TRUST THE PROCESS

She doesn't rush the blooming rose, it crowns her hair, and calmly grows. Her gaze is slanted not to flee, but to see what others failed to see.

Her fingers rest like whispered vows, a quiet strength beneath the brows. She wears the dusk, she wears the flame, she’s not yet done, but she became.

Trust the process, says her stance, even stillness is a dance.

V/ FREE AT LAST

No chains on her shoulders, no weight in her gaze, only the breath of a storm that’s learned how to stay.

She rises, unfinished, yet wholly complete, with shadows behind her and light at her feet.

Her lips, painted thunder, and her stare is made of flame. She doesn't look back nore will she speak your name.

The world tried to shrink her, to silence her soul, but she broke every whisper that dared take control.

Now still in the canvas, but not still within, she's the hush before morning, the pull of the tide.

Free at last, not in motion but in mind, in breath and in skin. She is not escaping, she already wins.

VI/ READY

It wasn’t always this way, this calm, this poise: this act of fastening a buckle as if it were simple.

No one saw the storms she swallowed whole, the days she hid her face from mirrors too loud with judgment, or the nights she sat barefoot in silence, waiting for the strength to try again.

The world asked her to bloom before her roots were steady, but she chose patience over performance.

Now, she bends, not in defeat, but in quiet triumph. Each motion deliberates each detail hard-won. The red shoe is a ribbon of resolve.

Around her, the golden world hums, but she doesn’t rush, because she has learned that becoming takes time. Now she is ready, not perfect, not untouched, but present, visible, and finally unafraid to be seen.

Ajar Vision