Certainty is not the opposite of doubt, it is its costume. A mask painted smooth to silence the tremble beneath.
But masks are not enemies—they are paper, fabric, clay—meant to weather, to thin, to soften in the salt of time and the sea of seeing.
When we stop ripping at them, they begin to dissolve on their own.
What remains is not certainty, not doubt, but transparency—the clear stone shaped by waves, fragile and strong at once, belonging to no story, yet touching all.