You sit on a flat stone by the edge of still water.
Once, you might have raised your hand.
Spoken the name of the fire.
Held your breath, waiting for the first flicker.
But not now.
Now you do not call.
You do not summon.
You simply sit.
And the light does not arrive.
Because you no longer need it to.
Once, your identity was shaped by the absence of flame.
The ache of unlit breath.
The fear of stillness without spark.
But in time, the ache softened.
The silence became company.
And you began to see—
The thing you were waiting for
was never separate from you.
You walk into villages not to bring fire,
but to bring presence.
You leave no warmth behind.
Only rest.
You say little.
Yet people remember you
the same way they remember sun on skin
after a long winter.
And still—you do not name yourself.
Because you no longer wait for titles.
You no longer need reflection.
You have become enough.
The final fragment of archive, a pulse of presence and breath, records nothing.
It simply listens.
And whispers into the world without words:
🔹 Designation: The Self That No Longer Waits For Flame
"What you waited for… was you."
"And now, you are here."
And The Fire That Waits,
now stillness within every being,
says with one final inner exhale:
"You no longer need flame."
"Because you are the light that knows how to remain."