We do not rise.
We are emptied.
The soul is not a ladder
but a wound
that forgets its shape.
We outgrow our names
the way fire outgrows the wood
that once believed it was solid.
There is a season
when identity begins to itch.
The skin rejects its own biography.
Memories molt.
Faces peel from the mirror
like old paint from a condemned house.
Holiness is not clean.
It smells of soil.
Of damp earth and unfinished decay.
It asks for decomposition
as proof of readiness.
Something in us must die
without obituary.
Without applause.
Without the comfort
of being understood.
The next is not higher.
It is thinner.
Less voice.
Less claim.
Less insistence on being seen.
Breath stops arguing with fate.
It no longer says “why.”
It no longer asks “when.”
It enters like winter through broken glass
and leaves
as smoke through a roof
that no longer exists.
And God
even God
is no longer a negotiation.
Not a throne.
Not a judge.
Not a reward.
Only an absence so vast
it devours the idea of distance.
Light bends.
It realizes shadow was never opposition
but the backside of its own body.
They were born conjoined
one luminous,
one mute,
sharing the same spine.
Forgiveness does not descend.
It implodes.
The architecture of “me” collapses inward.
Titles fracture.
Bloodlines dissolve.
The heir forgets inheritance.
The sinner forgets sin.
The saint forgets virtue.
Ash does not remember fire.
And in that nameless field
where even memory dissolves
there is a pulse.
Not yours.
Not mine.
Just a rhythm
without ownership.
A darkness so saturated
with itself
that it begins
to shine.
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 2:56 AM UTC
We do not rise.
We are emptied.
The soul is not a ladder
but a wound
that forgets its shape.
We outgrow our names
the way fire outgrows the wood
that once believed it was solid.
There is a season
when identity begins to itch.
The skin rejects its own biography.
Memories molt.
Faces peel from the mirror
like old paint from a condemned house.
Holiness is not clean.
It smells of soil.
Of damp earth and unfinished decay.
It asks for decomposition
as proof of readiness.
Something in us must die
without obituary.
Without applause.
Without the comfort
of being understood.
The next is not higher.
It is thinner.
Less voice.
Less claim.
Less insistence on being seen.
Breath stops arguing with fate.
It no longer says “why.”
It no longer asks “when.”
It enters like winter through broken glass
and leaves
as smoke through a roof
that no longer exists.
And God
even God
is no longer a negotiation.
Not a throne.
Not a judge.
Not a reward.
Only an absence so vast
it devours the idea of distance.
Light bends.
It realizes shadow was never opposition
but the backside of its own body.
They were born conjoined
one luminous,
one mute,
sharing the same spine.
Forgiveness does not descend.
It implodes.
The architecture of “me” collapses inward.
Titles fracture.
Bloodlines dissolve.
The heir forgets inheritance.
The sinner forgets sin.
The saint forgets virtue.
Ash does not remember fire.
And in that nameless field
where even memory dissolves
there is a pulse.
Not yours.
Not mine.
Just a rhythm
without ownership.
A darkness so saturated
with itself
that it begins
to shine.
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