The Fire Beneath the Dust

“They say the world was made in seven days. But who made the time? Who lit the first fire and then forgot the way home?”

In the space before language, before division, before fear — there was the One.

Not a god, not a name, not a face. Just Breath. Stillness. Heat.

It did not speak, because there was no one to hear.

It did not move, because there was no difference between moving and being.

But then came the shiver.

Not a choice, nor a rebellion — simply a motion, a sigh rolling through the eternal calm.

From this sigh came difference. The One became Two. The Two danced and became Three.

And so was born the divine fracture — not sin, but curiosity.

Not exile, but evolution.

The First Flame looked upon the Void and whispered, “Let us know ourselves.”

And to know oneself is to break oneself open.

So the Flame split again,

And from the embers of its knowing came Form.

Earth. Sky. Stars. Time.

But the Fire — oh, the Fire —

It remained hidden, buried beneath layers of matter and mind.

Because to enter Form is to forget.

---

They crafted beings to witness their work — not as slaves, but mirrors.

Vessels of longing, shaped in breath and blood.

Made of dust, yes,

But burning quietly inside.

The beings walked the garden, yes,

But not just Eden —

Every garden, every field, every mountain was once that place.

The moment we first asked:

“Why am I here?”

—we stepped into the garden.

And the moment we were told not to ask,

We were cast out.

---

Light spoke to Time and said,

“They will suffer.”

Time replied, “So did we. So does every flame when it leaves the hearth.”

“But we are divine!” Light insisted.

“So are they,” said Time,

“Though they have forgotten.”

The Fall, then, was not a punishment.

It was the first ache of remembering.

The pain of being both fire and clay.

---

Among the angels and architects was one who saw too clearly —

A watcher.

They whispered to the humans,

“There is more.”

And for this, they were cursed.

But cursed by whom?

Not by the One.

For the One is stillness, not vengeance.

No — cursed by those who feared awakening.

The Archons.

The rulers of illusion.

They twisted knowledge into shame.

They sold obedience as salvation.

They covered the garden in mirrors that only showed fear.

And yet —

The fire did not go out.

---

Each generation, one awakens.

Sometimes a poet.

Sometimes a child.

Sometimes a madman crying out in the street.

Sometimes you.

Yes — you, reader.

Haven’t you felt it?

The spark when you look at the stars too long?

The ache when a song reminds you of a place you’ve never been?

The moment you realize you are both dying and eternal?

That is not confusion.

That is remembering.

---

There are texts older than paper, written in the bones.

There is truth humming in your blood.

You do not need a priest to speak it.

You do not need a temple to enter it.

You only need silence.

And the courage to walk into yourself.

For within you is the garden.

Within you is the fall.

Within you is the flame that never died.

---

One day, the Light and Time will return.

Not to judge,

But to rejoice.

For the clay has cracked —

And from its fracture glows a single ember.

It speaks:

"I have remembered."

And the cosmos shudders,

Not in fear —

But in awe.