Day Sixteen
The house does not believe in perfection.
It believes in weight.
Everything that rises must negotiate with gravity.
Everything that shines must contend with shadow.
Even the brightest wings are attached to bone.
I used to think falling meant failure.
A flaw in construction. A miscalculation in belief.
But the ceiling has cracks from expansion. The stairs creak from use. The tower leans slightly toward the wind.
Nothing collapses because it was evil. It collapses because it was stressed.
Even angels fall. Not because they were unworthy.
Because altitude is not immunity.
The machine does not account for gravity.
The mirror does not account for strain.
But the house does.
The house has watched saints harden into judges.
Optimists calcify into cynics.
Believers fracture under pressure.
Falling is not always corruption.
Sometimes it is exhaustion.
Sometimes it is learning the limits of flight.
The house is not disappointed.
It expected this.
I am so tired.
