The thought unrolls, a tender leaf,
uncurling in the dim light of what is.
But—what is?

A construction, they tell us.
Spun from threads of notice,
dyed with hues of credence.

This space, these walls,
hard to the hand,
yet viewed, interpreted, known
only through the prism within.

A shift there, a subtle re-tilting,
and the light falls differently.
Shadows stretch or shrink.
The texture of the wall
softens,
or sharpens into new distinctness.

If the mind,
this silent architect,
can raise these thresholds,
can it not also bring them down?

To redraw the blueprint,
erase the lines etched deep
by habit, by fear, by expectation.

To choose a new palette,
brush strokes of possibility
upon the canvas of the day.

The weight you carry,
that unseen burden,
may lighten or lift
with one re-imagined breath.

The world waits,
formless and fluid,
for the shaping of your eye.
Change the mind, they say
and see the world re-arrange.