The Flame Falters, But I Remain

I’m thirsty to know why the flame within me falters—why it dims and flickers, though no wind seems to blow. Why, when I stand on the spiral path I’ve chosen, do I sometimes hesitate? Why do I find myself stalled, even as sacred visions swirl just out of reach, dreamweaves dancing at the edge of my perception? Why does my own inner oracle, once so luminous, now whisper in tones of doubt—asking if the cosmic loom has truly reserved a thread for me?

There is an old shadow whispering its mantra. Sometimes it’s just a breath against the back of my thoughts; sometimes it’s a thunder in my belly. It says: Not for you. Not this time. Others will sip from the chalice. You will thirst.
And gods, how many times have I mistaken this lie for a law?
How many times have I bowed to the illusion that the fountain runs dry—that there is not enough light, love, belonging, purpose—for everyone?

This is the haunting I carry: that abundance is selective, conditional, earned through exhaustion or divine favoritism.
And even when I reach out, my hands hesitate—do I truly believe the nectar will come?

But listen—truly listen—to the deeper pulse beneath that fear.
There is another knowing. A more ancient current than doubt.

The cosmos does not ration its essence. The wellspring doesn’t trickle—it pours.
The rivers of sustenance, of creation, of becoming—they don’t vanish.
They wait.
They wait for me to see them.

I have not been forsaken.
I’ve simply forgotten how to see.

So I begin again.
I re-open the eye that does not flinch before the veil.
I call forth the part of me that remembers:
The sacred is not scarce.
It has never been.

I will not race the hourglass.
I will not tremble before phantoms.

I will walk.
I will ask.
I will drink.
I will weave.

Because I am part of the tapestry.
I am a thread of the divine.
I do not need permission to belong.