One day you wake up and realize: your hands are older, your face has changed.

We loop back, again and again, from dream to dream, from reality to reality.

We can’t rewind time. We can only rush forward.

Like monks drawing a mandala grain by grain, we build ourselves piece by piece—knowing it won’t last.

Your hairs will gray before you're ready. Even your beauty will fade.

These outer trappings fall away, a brutal lesson of impermanence.

Then our faculties follow—our physical strength and then our intellect.

There is no escaping the rush of time. Embrace or reject, we all move toward the same end.

We may arrive at death at different times, but it spares no one.

We can hold onto who we are, how we treated people, and how we showed up for our values.

And like a mandala, those too will be swept away.

But the sweeping away does not rob this life of beauty. The impermanence, the preciousness, and the act of building our life is what gives the art its sublimity.

Knowing this precious life will be swept away is what keeps us present in its creation.

We sweep, we build, we vanish. And still, the mandala matters.