There are times in life where one does not crash suddenly.
He slides down inch-by-inch. He turns a deaf ear to the little bells. He allows one gift after another to fall silent. He tries to convince himself that he is conserving his energy, but somewhere inside an unseen ledger keeps track of the reality. One can make life look active even as it dims; one can hoard his energy while spending his courage.
This poem was borne from a rough period in life during which a harsh reality was revealed. I began, slowly but surely, to stop developing myself as an individual. No sudden fall was involved here. There were no spectacular reasons that would allow one to create an exciting tale of what happened.
It has been one of the greatest lessons that each new generation discovers in a different way. For example, youth believes that retreating and resting are the same things. The old teacher, who knows the real deal, understands that resting prepares you for battle again, while retreating is giving up and throwing your sword in the lake.
I had to choose sides: lean in or prepare for hurt.
Sitting on life's fence did not protect me from pain. All it did was sharpen the type of agony I felt. My mind's firmware refused all updates since its previous sorrowful save point. Haunting voices created a small court in the head that judged me at the end of the day for not allowing the best in me to be used.
My body might suffer from full effort. But my mind suffers from a sense of betrayal.
And that was the spark that inspired this poem. This is not about admiration or ambition or approval. It is about finding the distinction between performance and alignment. Performance asks, "who saw me burn?" Alignment asks, "did I remain true to the fire?"
So I write:
I do not see these lines as a call to neglect the body. Fire may burn out of neglect; horses may be treated cruelly; people may mistake weariness for virtue, and there is no kingdom in that.
Yet, there is another trap lurking behind innocent words. One might call cowardice "balance." One can rename avoidance "peace" and abandonment of his gifts "realism." These words sound mature enough to get past the inspection. They dress themselves in sensible clothes and come to your room to give you sensible advice. Yet, there is something in your chest that knows when counsel turns into a curse of diminishing you.
The ancient tales understood this phenomenon well. The student is rarely instructed in the beginning to seize a kingdom. Instead, he is told to observe a bird, to raise a bucket of water, to watch a fish, to listen to trees and plants, to humiliate himself in front of a minor task. Instruction comes indirectly as direct advice tends to bounce off armor. It happens after the student becomes porous enough to soak it up.
That was the path my lesson took through my suffering.
I needed to learn that holding back does not really simplify my life. Instead, it reduces its purity. A little time saved equals a bit of soul lost. The exchange rate is poor, but easy to overlook since the invoice is sent after sunset.
A scientific clarity underpins the metaphor of fire. A system is said to degrade if the energy cannot flow through it to perform the necessary functions. In the same way, mind degrades when the energy no longer reaches the place where it is required. Attention is diluted, agency weakens, meaning loses its force. The person might stay present, but the message gets weaker.
Whimsy does not demand abandoning the truth.
Thus, I call it fire because it still is the clearest symbol for me that represents a living force to be preserved, respected, and used wisely. A fire that is hoarded goes out. A fire that goes wild destroys everything in its path. But the fire that is managed keeps warm, hardens metal, cooks food, and creates a circle where people can be honest with one another.
The point is not whether the fire should burn.
The question is what altar receives its heat.
If the fire is used to gain praise, it turns one into a slave to the opinions of others. If it burns because of the fear of punishments, it creates a master of imaginary horrors. If it is used out of vanity, it will leave a bitter taste of ash in one's mouth. But if it is used with proper alignment and proper commitment to it, even a tough day may end in a peaceful satisfaction.
Not necessarily with ease or comfort.
With peace.
Peace of knowing that one gave his best.
This poem was meant to show that a person does not need crowds, achievements, and witnesses all the time. At times, he might need a simple feeling of inner contentment that results from the realization that he gave his very best to life when the moment demanded it. He went into it with the power he possessed and poured himself out, rising when rise was required.
This is not self-aggrandizement.
It is stewardship.
People are given certain tools for their use. Some of them are loud; some of them are quiet. And some of them, although hidden to everyone else, look like inconvenient intensities. The trick is not in making them more appealing to others. It is in learning to use them properly so that there would be no accusations coming from them at night.
The king in this poem is not a figure that stands above everybody else.
He is just the man who is done begging his soul for permission to live fully.
The Dawn After The CurseThe Dawn After The CurseThe chamber is behind him now. The whispering shadows dissolve at the threshold, and the fire travels forward.A seal image for carrying the lesson forward.
The chamber is behind him now. The whispering shadows dissolve at the threshold, and the fire travels forward.