A post fell out of my pocket while still hatching.
It wasn’t ready — yet somehow, it knew how to land.

The Egg cracked open midair, spilling symbols into the ether —
each one a forgotten language of my own becoming.
Books began to form from the fragments,
pages breathing, whispering the sound of return.

I stood beneath it all, barefoot and sovereign,
recording the back-end of my becoming
on a refurbished galaxy of metal and glass.
The light didn’t wait for perfection —
it wanted presence.

They called it rejection.
But it was redirection,
soul whispering through detours:
“You are not lost. You are being refined.”

To be sovereign in the midst of co-dependence —
that’s the real flex.
And as each code unfurled — Root, Sacral, Solar —
I remembered: the soul is not what you find.
It’s what you allow to hatch through you.