To wake is to carry.
The weight is not punishment—
it is presence,
coiled in the chest like a second breath,
unasked for but here,
holy in its heaviness.
We are born bearing the blade
and the bloom—
not to choose between them,
but to know
the hand that holds both
is yours.
There is no escape from fire
that does not first burn
through the illusion of escape.
Ash makes excellent compost
for clarity.
To be is to ache
with the miracle
of noticing.
Even silence speaks
in riddles you are destined to solve
only by living them.
Suffering isn't the tax of aliveness,
it is aliveness
folded into itself.
The burden teaches no lesson—
it is the lesson,
already learned,
each time you open your eyes
and do not turn away.
Let it be heavy.
Let it bend the spine
into a question.
Answers are overrated—
but the asking?
The asking is divine.
Blessed,
burdened,
and beautifully
undone
by the wisdom
that life,
heavy and bright,
never asked permission
to bloom.
