From where does it come—desire, instinct, action?
What summons the goals that flutter just beyond your reach?
Drifting between what was and what will be, the mind spirals—untamed, wandering, and alive.
A drop in the stomach, caught breath, where to?
Possibility sweeps in all directions, flowing out and curling back in again. Endless paths stretch like chords unstruck, aching for clever fingers and curious ears—steady with whispered tension.
How does a spark become a mighty flame?
Does it choose, or, as you drag a match head across the striker, are you choosing? Perhaps it was fated.
Each strike is a summons—not only of the fire, but of the path constricted by shadow, awaiting your illumination. Your fingers may tremble. The matchbook may be damp. The path may stretch longer than expected. It matters not. When choice later meets its reflection, it will recognize itself as destiny.
Your fire is yours alone. Unique. Evolving. Patient. Embers waiting to be stirred fully into waking, a wick longing to melt its waxen shell, a match pining to spill light into the dark. The buzzing in the tips of your fingers.
The flame lies in wait.
The spark resides within, seeking your permission to greet the outer world.
Choosing is both courage and surrender; teaching a child while embracing their independence of thought... Careless hands may be scorched. The flame obeys only those who honor it. So tend it. Feed it. Guide it. Sweep the ashes of yesterday. Let it illuminate without consuming, burn without destroying. Let it light your path without setting the world ablaze.
Quake if you must, but take the match between your fingers. Draw it across the rough strip, even in uncertainty. Fire does not mind trembling hands, it will wash you in light and warmth all the same.
Strike—and fear not the fire within.
0 comments