بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ
Some questioning and its answers, a stick drawn through the sand, overlaying the path of a moth embracing its flame and finding a handle on the pain, even as it quickly immolates, leaving of its old skin, but ash and no trace. Perhaps this creature, the moth, wasn't quite made of flesh or things which fall off, but instead purely of fire, like such a bird of myth borne to rise from its own pyre, after enduring catharsis like heroes of old been written, walking across mountains with boulders, shrugging off burdens they'd never truly owned to begin with. Wisdom isn't simply in avoidance of pain or roads leading through it, but rather knowing when some destinations are what our shoulders were made to be pursuing, a chase across curtains, marking death as simply a door to be opened.
Welcome, dear moth, find comfort and cozy the heat, spread your waiting wings, perhaps one day to come, you'll choose to be reborn inside, this flame which makes us truly alive.
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