There are moments when I feel that I am no longer myself. As if the version of me I recognize is dissolving, slipping quietly into the void. Each time it happens, I fall inward - not down, but through. Through darkness. Through stars. Through the quiet violence of my own chaos. I drift across constellations that feel like memories I cannot name. Some people would call this catharsis. But I have experienced it so many times that it no longer feels like release. It feels like fracture. I shed versions of myself the way dying stars shed light. Bones, body, thoughts - they flicker and disappear. Identity becomes weightless. Language collapses. Time loosens its grip. And when everything else falls away, something remains. A small, stubborn star. A pulse in the infinite dark. My soul. It does not scream. It does not beg. It simply burns - quietly, relentlessly - illuminating me from within. In the spiral of this collapse, I begin to understand: perhaps I am not breaking. Perhaps I am orbiting my own center. The journey inward continues. Deeper than fear. Deeper than memory. Deeper than the names I have given myself. I am both the void and the gravity within it. Both the falling and the force that pulls me home. And somewhere in the heart of the vortex, the flower keeps blooming.