The wings are a blur, yet the eyes are sharp with intent — the sunbird springs forward, suspended in the fragile space between stillness and flight. Around it, the ginger flowers stand rooted, unmoving, a mirror of the comfort zone I know so well, where routines keep me safe but stagnant. In this fleeting leap I see myself, torn between the security of what is already preset and the ache to rise, to risk, to test the air ahead. What if I miss, what if I fall short? And yet, what if this very hurt, this very stumble, is what teaches me to grow? The leap is not about certainty — it is about choosing motion over numbness, faith over fear.
If You Stop A Little Longer, You'll Feel What I See.
