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There's a looseness in her hips as she strides along the path. The softness of her mouth invites smiles from those who notice, but her attention is not on them. She is both contained and containing, sharing her body with the mysteries of the unseen as she inhabits the spaces of this Earth.

She is light. She is knowledge. She is truth.

One has only to witness her unwitnessed to understand that hers is a world in which magic happens. The unknowable becomes known in the safety of her chest. Impossibilities become possible in the swing of her arms. This is what goddesses are made of; she knows it, even when she is too afraid to allow it. 

She stops at a bench, drawn to stay in this moment. The angle of the sun illuminates the left side of her face, warming the smile beneath her flesh. It activates her into action, coaxing her to both stop and go. She's capable of doing both—not in oscillation, but in harmony. She holds the paradox of choice in her hands as she pulls out a pen and notebook. Time is inconsequential now. The only presence is hers. Observing. Noting. Feeling. Being. 

The usual daily drudgeries can't apply to her in this moment. When one has become who they are meant to be, time and duty are forgiven. There are no shackles to hold her to this plane; freedom lives within her. If it weren't for gravity, she might fly off into the realm of angels, where she truly belongs. But she knows she's in the midst of her incarnation. She waits patiently as the words come to her, and she forms her fingers into the right shape to wield her pen. The muscles of her hands do the work, scribbling this way and that, until she stops—not hesitating, but holding the space before more words pour from her vessel. 

This, she thinks. Just this.

She is the art.

- Still, Between