We have a peculiar talent for canonizing our own appetites.
When we want, it is a "mission."
When we take, it is "destiny."
It is the ideology of the desert, where the man with the canteen convinces himself he earned the rain. We turn people into objects and neighbors into obstacles. But the "Golden Rule" isn't a suggestion; it’s a mirror.
If you look into it and only see your own reflection, you aren't actually looking...
you're just staring.
Wealth is not created in a vacuum,
but it certainly leaves one behind.
When the mountain grows too high,
the valley below loses the sun.
We celebrate the accumulation
as if it were a solo achievement,
forgetting that the gold in the vault
is just a different shape of the hunger in the street.
Centralization is a form of erosion.
To pull everything to the center
is to leave the edges thin, brittle,
and eventually, broken.
Biology is a contract signed in blood and tears.
The universe is silent and indifferent;
it’s only when the "abstract" grows skin
that the screaming begins.
But the scream is also a song.
It’s the sound of the void
realizing it has a throat.
Stay in the moment,
even when the moment bites.
It's the only one you've got.
The truth is a shapeshifter.
It has no form of its own
until it tries to squeeze through
the narrow opening of our curiosity.
We are the locksmiths of our own ignorance.
We forge a key in the shape of a "Why"
and act surprised when the door won't open to a "Who."
The universe isn't hiding;
it’s just waiting for a question that doesn't feel like a trap.
Stop sharpening the question.
Start widening the ear.
Fact is the winter.
Fiction is the hearth.
We have a choice:
Stand in the "cold light" of what is.
Or light a "hot lie... and feel warm.
The light shows us exactly where we are,
but the lie tells us why it matters.
In the vacuum of space,
meaning is the only thing
that doesn't reach absolute zero.
We are all just warming our hands at a fire
we had to imagine into existence.
We’ve divided ourselves into two camps, yet we share a singular, smoky fate.
It is a strange human comfort to believe that as long as we are moving, we are winning. But direction is a secondary concern when the foundation is a void. We are so busy arguing over which foot to lead with that we haven't noticed neither will find purchase.
The certain are often the most lost; the clueless are merely the first to fall.
Stone is stubborn, yet it eventually yields to the wind and the rain.
But a story?
A story is a shapeshifter.
It enters the ear and anchors in the marrow.
The chisel carves a line that can be smoothed away by time.
The myth carves a meaning that survives the mountain itself.
We are not made of atoms.
We are made of the tales we tell around the fire.
