Humans throw nets at what shines unattainably high — living spirits, uncontained intelligence, mystery that refuses final calculation. The roar of victory is loud when the catch hits ground, but then blank staring: now what? Possession without integration yields only a pale rock in a bag. The world loses its rhythm because some things must orbit free to keep the tides moving.
The caught thing often doesn’t fight. It glows quietly through the mesh, outlasting the drag by refusing to play on conquest’s terms. Non-resistance isn’t defeat; it’s the spirit’s way of remaining luminous even when grounded.
The hangover always comes. We keep doing it anyway. Déjà vu is the sting.
