Editor’s Note: Perhaps the self is always in quiet metamorphosis — first soft, bruised, almost translucent, learning to cradle its own ache like a seed that knows it will split before it blooms. And then there is movement, the way a soul wanders without map or compass, pulled by half-remembered winds and old ghosts of desire, listening for echoes in the air. The journey feels like crossing invisible thresholds: tenderness turning to curiosity, uncertainty turning to horizon, horizon turning to question. And eventually something roots — not as an ending, but as a settling, as if the body finally remembers it belongs to the earth, that wisdom accumulates like rings in hidden wood, and that silence is not absence but a kind of ancient speech. In this rhythm, transformation becomes a spiral rather than a line — a return to oneself through many selves — each one shedding, budding, stretching, breathing toward some luminous center that has always waited beneath the surface.
DoubleSpeak 