We think life is a linear process,
a journey from birth to death,
a straight road cut through days and years,
measured by clocks and milestones.
But it is circular in its making —
we spiral through time like smoke,
circling deeper truths, wider light,
returning without retracing our steps.

We move as planets move, not arrows,
held in quiet gravitational vows,
each year bends back toward familiar ground,
yet the ground has subtly changed.
Old questions bloom in altered light,
their edges opened by weather and waiting,
and what once felt like repetition
reveals a hidden ascent.

Time is not a line but a tide —
it advances by folding into itself.
Grief returns bearing different weight,
love revisits with a clearer voice.
We cross the same rivers again and again,
yet our feet are never the same feet,
and the water, fluent with memory,
recognises us anew.

The spiral teaches without urgency,
it widens, then draws us inward.
Lessons are not learned once, but refined,
like stones shaped slowly by turning seas.
Each pass strips away illusion,
each return deepens the centre,
until experience becomes resonance
and knowing grows round and whole.

Look at the shell, the galaxy, the ring of trees;
see how creation favours return.
Beginnings hide inside endings,
endings curve back into birth.
We are always arriving where we started,
but with eyes trained by distance,
hands weathered by holding and release,
hearts enlarged by the arc of living.

Life is not leaving, but remembering —
a dilated orbit of awareness.
We circle what matters until it opens,
until truth no longer resists our gaze.
The path does not point forward or back,
it turns, luminous and exact,
and in its patient geometry
we learn how to belong without time.