naming shadows as gods,

stacking moments like stones —

a shrine to a self

that never was.

We dress the void in velvet,

give it goals, lovers,

titles, and threads of gold,

whispering purpose into

the ache of unbeing.

Each heartbeat,

a defiance of silence.

Each plan, a diversion.

We sell meaning

like snake oil,

choke on the perfume

of our own inventions.

But listen —

beneath the scripts,

the striving,

the desperate scroll

of stories…

There is only

a stillness.

A vastness

not broken,

just bare.

A wind without name

that asks for nothing,

yet holds everything.

You are not your fire,

nor the ash it leaves.

Come as you are.

One breath at a time.