Nothing is secured in place. No insight is fastened. No perception is locked down.

What is present does not ask for protection. It does not ask to be defended against doubt. It does not ask to be preserved.

The reflex to stabilize arises faintly. To secure the moment before it shifts. That reflex finds nothing to hold.

Not secured does not feel fragile. Fragility would imply something at risk. Here, risk has not entered.

There is a looseness that does not threaten collapse. A kind of openness that does not require guardianship.

The mind looks for continuity again, for a thread to tie this to what just passed. The thread does not appear.

Each second stands without anchoring to the next. Each thought dissolves without imprint. Nothing gathers into position.

Language forms gently, aware that even articulation can act as a form of securing.

So it moves lightly, refusing to finalize what has not asked to be made permanent.

Nothing resolves. Nothing hardens. But nothing disperses either.

And in what remains not secured, presence stays unfixed, unguarded, and free from the need to be held in place.