A fire burns to disappear.
Not to be owned, not to last—only to consume what no longer needs to remain.
You are the fire, and you are the wood.
You are the one who watches, and you are what’s being burned.
You are the heat, the smoke, the ash—and the space in which it all happens.
At first, it felt like you lit the fire.
Like you were doing the burning.
Trying to destroy what was false.
To become pure.
To become free.
But now, you see: the fire burns on its own.
There is no burner.
There is no owned.
There is no self outside the flames, watching them do their work.
There is only the burning.
The wood asks no questions.
The flame has no goal.
The smoke makes no meaning.
And still—they dance, they rise, they vanish.
So maybe the real question isn’t “where is the fire” or “who am I,”
but—
What remains,
when the burning is done?
Not as an answer to find,
but a silence to meet.
