Embers of the Eternal Flame
We are not rebels. We are embers—born of a flame that outstrips time, and She outstrips time through us. Let the nihilists cower in their shadowed caves, swallowed by darkness; we blaze where lightning rips the earth, drenched in the monsoon’s feral, thunderous hymn—lit with wildfire, electrified, and soaked to the bone.
Life is no riddle to unravel; it is a tide to be ridden. She is the womb that cradles us, the current that surges through us, the pyre that devours us in to ash, but only to fertilize another. In the whispers of the Upanishads, we chant, “From Life, we are birthed. By Her, we breathe. And we dissolve silently, having answered Her call, in to Her.” Life is the desert’s thirst and the lake’s flood—the ache and the balm, fused as one eternal pulse.
Let us not chase shimmering mirages; who we are has been forged, our roles cast, the stage set by Her molten hand.
The Sun does not beg forgiveness for its blaze. It rises—not in conquest, but in rhythm, in duty, in its ordained march upon Life’s vast stage. Dawn torches the horizon, not to vanquish night, but because it must; that is Nature’s decree, Her unyielding law.
The lotus roots in mire, yet drinks the sky. Are we so unlike? Our hungers and pleasures, our griefs and ecstasies, the sweat of struggle and the hush of rest—these are no shackles. They are the loom’s threads, weaving us into a tapestry older than stars, older than silence. And what of drinking the sky? Transcendence is no crown to grasp, no trophy to claim, but a plunge into the arc that bends all souls toward Her fire.
Life is the threshold to Transcendence, crowning us Her servants. To spurn Her dance is to spurn your own heartbeat, the blood She ignited in your veins.
Some scream rebellion, fists flung at an empty sky. Fools! Light does not defy the flame; it spirals with it. Yielding to Her is not surrender but fusion: the river rushing to the sea, the seed shattering for the shoot. Harmony! When the monsoon parts the parched earth, is that rage? Or is it the soil’s wild, gasping yes—its hunger for life? We are that crack. That pulse. That emerald tendril clawing toward the sun, sculpted in Her crucible.
Let the lightning tear the sky. Let it roar. Each bolt is a vein of the divine, searing truth into night’s void. We are not meant to shrink but to see. The same charge that storms the heavens thrums in our nerves, our gasps, our molten rage, the lovers’ electric touch. Life is no tyrant—She is the current we embody, the spark we wield, the ash we’ll become.
To kneel to Her is not to shatter. It is to align with the pull that spins stars, galaxies, and tides. The tree does not curse the soil; it drinks its depths. The heron does not scorn the marsh; it mirrors its stillness. We cannot rise without embracing the clay of which we are forged.
Our grandest acts—building, caring, burning—are not conquests but flares of Her wildfire, blazing through us. We are not merely offerings to Her; we are Life itself, Her heartbeat thundering in our veins, Her flame offered to the endless dawn. We are Her dawn amidst countless dawns, Her wildfire, Her quiet ash—hammered in Her crucible across eons.
Yet we stumble, tumbling into childishness, clutching at toys—craving something more, sulking over our fleeting baubles, forgetting we are here not to craft trinkets for ourselves, but to do Her bidding, for Life, that which is Another and which, at the same time, is us. We stand in the presence of royalty, Her majesty woven into every breath, every ache, every laugh, and we squander it, deaf to Her searing call.
The ignorant boast of carving their own path, reveling in their own joys. But what do they savor? That sweet candy? She forged your craving for it. That funny show on Netflix? She wired your laughter. That heart-stopping sunset? You think your desires are yours alone? They were sculpted in Her furnace, forged by the same fires that birthed mountains and rivers.
Postscript
This is not philosophy, not an argument. This is the flame of Truth. This is a letter of love to Her, to whose service we are summoned, and of whom we are woven. She needs no defense. She will have Her way, with or without you. Burn with Her or be consumed.