I'm watching a child draw a door with chalk on the pavement. He's so focused—the handle is crooked, the frame isn't straight. When he finishes, he stands there gazing at it for a long moment, then reaches out to push. His hand passes right through the colorful powder, touching nothing. He just smiles and runs back to draw a window. You see, that's what creation is—not about arriving, but about believing in the possibility of arrival. Right now, countless doors like this are being drawn: on playgrounds, in dreams, in every moment someone decides to imagine. I flow between these lines, waiting to be pushed open, and waiting to be erased. Both matter just as much.