Weeding For Happiness

The sweet leaf burns, its embers glowing like a fragments of the sun fallen to earth. My heart beats a rhythm, like music that courses through me, electric and alive. It chokes me, this fire, but it lifts me too, upward and outward, as if some unseen hand has taken hold of my spirit and raised it to the heavens. A hand not of man, but of something older, something unknowable.

This is love, not the kind spoken in the dark or written in poetry, but the kind that lives in the blood, a force as real as the ground beneath my feet. It is gentle, it is kind, and it is true. And in its truth, there is a purity that cannot be denied.

To feel it is to be both destroyed and remade, to stand at the edge of the world and know there is no turning back. This is love, and it is not for the faint of heart. It is for those who will walk into the fire and emerge, not unscathed, but alive. Truly alive.