They said, “Stay focused,” —
as if focus were a tame thing,
as if it didn’t have claws, caffeine cravings,
and a late-night love affair with procrastination.
They said, “Keep the fire burning,” —
as if I hadn’t already been barbecue’d
by ambition’s radiant heat,
sweating persistence in a silk blouse,
trying to look divine while juggling deadlines and destiny.
Change — oh, that tempestuous lover —
arrives unannounced, rearranges the furniture of my soul,
leaves my comfort zone in shambles,
and still has the audacity to ask for tea.
But here’s the truth: they don’t print on self-help mugs:
transformation is rarely elegant.
It’s often a series of controlled combustions —
the art of igniting, extinguishing, and reigniting
with poise, grace, and just enough audacity
to call it spiritual evolution.
Each milestone I cross —
even the ones that trip me on the way —
signs its name in ash and gold.
Legacy, darling, is not written in ink —
It’s written in resilience,
in every late-night “I can do this,”
and morning, “I already did.”
So I laugh — not out of madness,
but mastery.
Because the joke is that the fire never needed tending —
I was the match all along.
And every time I strike against resistance,
I spark.
I am the torchbearer and the trail.
The pyre and the phoenix.
The scholar of sacred combustion.
And when my flame one day joins the stars,
may it whisper, with perfect diction and divine humor:
I didn’t just burn.
I illuminated.—
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