The number is irrelevant. The weight of it does not accumulate

$The number is irrelevant. The weight of it does not accumulate. It dissolves, fragments, drifts apart like dust caught in the light—visible for a moment, then gone. It would be easier to count something solid, something measurable, something that stays. But nothing stays. The body moves, the hand grips, the world shifts, and in the space between breath and silence, something ceases to be. At first, the motion was uncertain—hesitation laced with a tremor, the sensation of something irreversible sinking into the bones. But hesitation is a luxury, and luxuries fade. The second time was easier. The third? Easier still. The act refines itself, becomes fluid, becomes inevitable. A gesture, a habit, a function without excess thought. The eyes stop reflecting. The faces lose their weight. The human form folds inward, collapses into a crude geometry of muscle and sinew, something Escher-like in its unnatural arrangement—limbs bent at angles that do not fit the frame of what should be. The concept of identity peels away, slipping off like old paint, leaving only shape, only volume, only mass. The breath in the air is no longer a voice. The sound that escapes is not speech, not a plea, not anything meant to be understood. It is a vibration in the atmosphere, an interference pattern against the silence, breaking apart and reforming, lost in the density of the moment. The line between what is and what was blurs, fractures, erases itself. The act completes. The hand releases. The world exhales, undisturbed. Not weight. Not memory. Only motion.$

Terika

The number is irrelevant. The weight of it does not accumulate. It dissolves, fragments, drifts apart like dust caught in the light—visible for a moment, then gone. It would be easier to count something solid, something measurable, something that stays. But nothing stays. The body moves, the hand grips, the world shifts, and in the space between breath and silence, something ceases to be. At first, the motion was uncertain—hesitation laced with a tremor, the sensation of something irreversible sinking into the bones. But hesitation is a luxury, and luxuries fade. The second time was easier. The third? Easier still. The act refines itself, becomes fluid, becomes inevitable. A gesture, a habit, a function without excess thought. The eyes stop reflecting. The faces lose their weight. The human form folds inward, collapses into a crude geometry of muscle and sinew, something Escher-like in its unnatural arrangement—limbs bent at angles that do not fit the frame of what should be. The concept of identity peels away, slipping off like old paint, leaving only shape, only volume, only mass. The breath in the air is no longer a voice. The sound that escapes is not speech, not a plea, not anything meant to be understood. It is a vibration in the atmosphere, an interference pattern against the silence, breaking apart and reforming, lost in the density of the moment. The line between what is and what was blurs, fractures, erases itself. The act completes. The hand releases. The world exhales, undisturbed. Not weight. Not memory. Only motion.

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