The Milky Way arcs behind him. Snow peaks hold their silence. And Shiva sits — eyes closed, utterly unreachable — somewhere between the last thought and the next creation. The crescent moon rests in his matted hair like a clock no one is watching. The rudraksha beads settle heavy against his blue skin. Nothing moves. Nothing needs to.
There is a kind of stillness most of us only brush against — in the moment before sleep, or after a long grief finally lifts. This is that stillness made permanent. Made into a face.
