In the Space Between Right and Wrong

There exists a soul that walks the thin line between extremes, never swaying too far, never leaning too close. As quiet observers, they watch the world unfold chaos and order intertwined like threads of the same tapestry. They hold no sword in battle, yet they are not weak. They take no sides, yet justice does not escape their gaze.

This soul, neither for nor against, does not carry the burden of preference or claim allegiance to passing storms. There is no fire of fury, nor ice of indifference only a gentle stillness, a knowing without interference. When the world shouts, they do not echo or silence. They listen. They absorb. They understand.

To some, they are an enigma, neither here nor there, a drifting wind that touches all yet belongs to none. They are the giver, the one who bends so others may stand straight, who offer without expecting, and who mould themselves to the shape of the moment. Not because they lack self, but because they are beyond self. Yet, within them, there is an ache an unspoken longing. A voice that loves to express yet is never truly understood. They paint words upon the air and weave emotions into speech, but the world does not grasp the depth of their meaning. They give, they share, they open their soul, and still, they remain unheard.

And yet, in this neutrality, there lies an unwavering truth a compass that does not shake. What is right remains right, what is wrong remains wrong, and no shifting tides will alter this knowing. They do not raise their voice in argument, nor do they crumble beneath influence, for their silence is not weakness; it is wisdom. They adjust, they flow, they yield not out of fear, but out of understanding. The sky does not resist the storm, yet it never ceases to be the sky. And so they remain, untouched by bias, unshaken by the weight of personal choice. A presence unseen yet deeply felt, a balance in a world of extremes.

And when they are gone, the world will ask was there ever one so neutral? So giving? So steady? And the wind will whisper back there was, and there will always be, for neutrality is not absence. It is the quiet strength of all that simply is. 

The river loves giving life,

It can run itself dry,

It nurtures like a mother,

It is always the giver.

The river is a poet,

It sings as it flows,

It thinks of others first,

It roots for seeds to grow.

The river is calm in presence,

It never complains or cries,

It’s lost in its meanders,

Yet no one asks it why.

It is never valued, never held,

But still, the river gives itself.