The smoke is thick.
Silent.
Coiling around me like a noose.

I have been sitting in the quiet retreat of my home, tending the fire of my love, sealing it tight, trying to do it right.
Trying to build the perfect thing.
Trying to craft a life, a business, a container worthy of its sacred content.

Structure. Strategy. Systems.
Clean lines. Perfect plans. Predictable outcomes.

And it’s killing me.

It’s suffocating me, slow and sure, like a flame trapped in a sealed jar.

I love my quiet.
I love my solitude, spaciousness, and ease.
But something ancient and wild in me is done gasping for air.

How could something I love so fiercely be choking me?

I remember the first business blueprint I drew, and the second, seventh, and sevety-ninth… all hope and clean lines and promise.
I thought if I built it just right, I could keep the fire alive.
But I see now: the jar was never the protection.
It was the suffocation.

The truth shatters through the smoke:

I am already the fire.

I am not here to build a cage for it.
I am not here to make it neat, or palatable, or manageable.
I am not here to wait for permission to live.

I am the flame.
I have always been the flame.

And a flame must burn.

Not someday.
Not when the blueprint is perfect.
Not when the article is well-crafted.
Not when the crowd is ready.
Not when the path is smooth.

Now.
Here.
Today.

The smoke that’s been strangling me wasn’t some outside failure.
It was the consequence of trying to contain what was never meant to be trapped.

Love isn’t meant to be saved.
It isn’t meant to be stored.
It’s meant to burn.

It will either set the world ablaze with its warmth… or it will die trying.

And I…
I am done dying.

I am done waiting for a better website, a perfectly crafted article, a cleaner strategy before I dare to be real.
I am done pretending my love needs to earn its right to exist.

My love needs no permission.
It only needs air.
It only needs to breathe.

I don’t know what it will look like.
I don’t know if anyone will care.
I don’t know if anyone will come.

But that was never the point.

I will burn because that is what a flame does.
I will burn because that is what a heart in Loving Presence must do.

If my fire warms you, you are welcome to come closer.
If it moves you, you are welcome to walk with me.
If it frightens you, you are free to go.

But I will not stop burning to make anyone more comfortable.
I will not dim my light so others can pretend the world is not on fire.
I will not contain my love until it suffocates us both. or, us all.

Business or no business.
Plan or no plan.
Applause or no applause.

I will burn.

I will burn because the world needs heat more than it needs another perfectly polished, perfectly dead thing.
I will burn because love demands it.
I will burn because existence depends on it.

And whether the world watches or not…
whether it understands or not…
whether it comes closer or runs away…

The flame will keep burning.

I will keep burning.

Because a candle was never made to sit unlit inside a jar.
A flame was never made to ask who might read by its light.
It was made to blaze.
It was made to set the darkness trembling.
It was made to burn.

And so here I am.

Burning.

The smoke peels back.
The stars lean closer.
The air hisses with wild, new oxygen.

The flame breathes.

If you feel the heat…
if something ancient in you remembers the forgotten fire you carry…
if you long to once again step into the warmth of your own burning desire…
you are welcome here.

But with or without you…
with or without anyone…

My love will burn.