What remains when the fire softens to a steady glow.
The world I came from was loud.
Proof was measured in performance — in how brightly you could burn
before the room went dark again.
I lived that way once: all spark, no rest.
Now the quiet holds me.
Peace doesn’t need witnesses; it hums beneath everything.
What I used to call survival was really discernment —
the slow art of sifting what’s worth carrying.
I didn’t refuse it all.
I kept what was true,
what could live in the light.
What came before burned fast; what remains glows steady.
There’s no need to prove what peace looks like —
it speaks in the way I move now, the way I listen, the way I stay.
The fireline still flickers ahead of me, sometimes wild, sometimes faint —
but now I know which flames to follow.
I walk barefoot, aware, and unafraid.
Peace isn’t an ending.
It’s how I travel —
and what I choose to tend.
The quiet was the revolution all along.
Not the fire, but the steady glow that followed it.
In learning what to keep, I became what endures.
Echos of Insight 
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