Every evening, the sky remembers how to become something entirely different. Blue to gold. Gold to fire. Fire to violet. Then, without asking permission, it dissolves into stars. I sit beneath it, wondering if change has always been this quiet. I watch the sky become itself again. Perhaps becoming has never meant staying the same. Maybe I've been changing the whole time. Not in the loud, movie-ending kind of way. But slowly. Like rivers teaching stone how to surrender. Like trees learning to let go without calling it loss. Some versions of me had to die without a funeral. Some dreams fell from my hands like leaves in October, only to become soil beneath my feet. I watch the sky become itself again. Perhaps becoming has never meant staying the same. I grieved people who were still alive. I buried beliefs that once built cathedrals inside my mind. I watched certainty crumble into questions... and somehow, the questions felt more honest. The clouds never apologize for becoming something new. Why should I? Every scar, every wrong turn, every impossible season stitched another color into the horizon of who I am. So tonight, I'll watch the daylight slip beyond the edge of another ending. I'll breathe with the wind. I'll stand beside tomorrow before it even arrives. Because the sky has been trying to tell me all along— Nothing beautiful stays the same. And maybe... neither should I. I watch the sky become itself again. Perhaps becoming has never meant staying the same.
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