The flame does not mourn the wood it consumes—it becomes light There is something holy about the way fire teaches. It consumes with no apology, no restraint, and in doing so, it does not simply destroy—it transforms. There is something in us that wants to be the flame, but we fear the cost: the loss of the structure we once were, the certainty of form, the memory of being whole before ignition. We speak often of growth as something soft, something nurturing. But the flame teaches otherwise. It teaches that growth may be combustion. That to evolve, we must let parts of ourselves burn—relationships, beliefs, comforts, even our former selves. The light we become is born of these necessary losses. Watch the candle. The wax does not survive the flame, and yet its purpose is fulfilled in disappearing. What if our own vanishing is a kind of arrival? What if obliteration is not the end, but the offering? The flame also teaches presence. It flickers, vulnerable to the winds around it, b...
I dwell in the spaces where shadows meet light, where questions outnumber answers. A seeker of truths buried deep, I write to unearth what lies beneath the surface. In the chaos, I find my voice. In the silence, I find myself.