I often find myself guided by a tapestry of superstitions, each thread woven from the fabric of tradition and a dash of the mystical. It’s in the way I hold my breath passing by cemeteries, toss salt over my shoulder after a spill, or choose to wear certain items on days filled with promise or peril. These rituals, as quirky as they may seem, are my silent nods to the universe — acknowledgments of forces beyond my understanding. They don’t dictate my life, but they sprinkle it with moments of reflection, respect for the unknown, and a playful dance with fate. In this dance, I’m both skeptic and believer, finding comfort in the familiar steps of superstition that have been passed down through generations.