Flux of Joy

Joy did not arrive all at once. It came in curves, in pauses, in sudden turns that almost looked like doubt.

At first, it was a small pulse, quiet, spiraling inward as if protecting its own tenderness. From there, it began to move, stretching itself into ribbons of color and breath. Each bend remembered something: a moment of light, a shadow that once lingered longer than it should have, a decision made without knowing the outcome.

The form learned to flow by listening. It learned that joy is not a straight line; it sways, folds back on itself, tightens, and releases. Some parts grew structured, holding rhythm and order, while others softened into translucent hues, letting feeling lead. Where colors met, they didn’t argue; they blended, accepting overlap as truth.

As the movement continued, joy became embodied—no longer an emotion but a state of becoming. It wrapped around emptiness without trying to fill it, honoring the hollow spaces as necessary breath.

In its final turn, the form did not resolve, but it opened. Joy remained in motion, aware that its beauty lived in transition. Not happiness as a destination, but joy as a living current: shaped by experience, refined by time, and endlessly willing to transform.

This is the flux, where joy is not held, but practiced.