One morning on the beach, I watched the impossible-looking overlap that’s actually part of the universe’s quiet rhythm: the full moon still hanging in the sky while the sun rose on the opposite side, two rulers sharing one horizon like a cosmic negotiation between night and day. I lifted my gaze—glasses on—and inside the blazing circle of the sun I saw a silhouette, a dark, winged shape that felt like a bird at first and then like a dragon, something suspended between explanation and omen, and the moment struck me with that rare sensation where awe and fear feel like the same heartbeat. Was it optics, lens flare, atmospheric scattering, the mind’s pattern-hunger—something normal made strange by light? Or was it a symbol arriving at the exact second my soul was ready to read it? From there, I descend into Norse myth, where Sköll and Hati chase the sun and moon across the sky, and into Eastern traditions where sun and moon can symbolize yin and yang, a balance rather than a battle. In the overlap, I felt both sides of me hunted down and aligned—and for a breath of time, it felt like I felt God.