![[Pasted image 20250727100612.png]] ![[f1dc2a2b-c4f2-468e-9331-240e17c9028b.wav]] We gather where the shadows break, around the question we remake. A single fire, a central sun, and our long orbit has begun. We are the moths, the hungry race, who circle this one burning place. The question isn't what or why, but in the asking, *who am I?* A hunger not for bread, but for the ache, the thirst no answer can ever slake. We feed the flame with all we learn, and in its hunger, watch it burn the very maps we thought were true, and start the dance all over, new. We bring our grammars to the heat, the syntax of both sour and sweet. The architect with plans of sand, the poet with a trembling hand, the saint who sheds his holy grace— we empty out this breathing space. The fire eats the name and verb, and leaves a silence to absorb. And in that silence, clear and deep, a secret that the embers keep: the dancer and the dance are one, the fire and the light it spun. You are the question and the spark, the searching hand within the dark, the watcher and the thing you see, the lock, and you, the only key. So turn and turn, and do not rest, this holy, un-concluding quest. This dance is all you came to learn— to be the fire, and in turn, to be the one who feels the burn. The final knowing isn't spoken. It is the circle, never broken, the breath between the out and in, where you end, and where you begin. #poetry #philosophy #existentialism #poetry-public