The Dance of Light and Darkness

“I said: what about my eyes?

He said: Keep them on the road.

I said: What about my passion?

He said: Keep it burning.

I said: What about my heart?

He said: Tell me what you hold inside it?

I said: Pain and sorrow.

He said: Stay with it. The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”

― Rumi

In the quiet corners of existence, where the veil between worlds is thin, I stumbled upon a passage a whisper from the ancient poet Rumi. His words, like gossamer threads, wove themselves into the fabric of my being, altering the course of my days. It was a revelation a mindset shift that would transform not only my perception but the very essence of my life.

“What about my eyes?” I asked, my voice a mere echo against the vastness of the cosmos.

“Keep them on the road,” came the reply, as if spoken by the wind itself. The road the winding path that led beyond the horizon, where dreams and destinies converged. And so, I fixed my gaze upon that invisible ribbon, knowing that every step held a secret, every pebble a lesson.

“What about my passion?” I inquired, my heart ablaze with longing.

“Keep it burning,” the unseen guide murmured. Passion the fire that fueled my days, the molten core of my existence. It was not to be extinguished, but tended like a sacred flame. And so, I stoked it, feeding it with purpose and desire, until it roared within me a beacon in the night.

“And my heart?” I hesitated, for hearts are fragile things, easily bruised.

“Tell me what you hold inside it?” The question hung in the air, pregnant with meaning. What did I harbor within? Pain, like shards of glass, and sorrow the ache of unmet expectations. But deeper still, there was a wellspring of resilience, a reservoir of hope. It was a wounded heart, scarred by life’s tempests, yet pulsing with an ancient rhythm.

“Stay with it,” the guide whispered. “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”

The wound the raw, tender space where life had carved its initials. It was not a curse but a threshold. For in the darkness of that wound, a chink in my armor, the Light found ingress. It seeped through, illuminating hidden chambers, casting shadows into relief. And suddenly, I understood: pain was not my enemy; it was my alchemist. It transformed leaden moments into gold, despair into revelation.

In the tapestry of existence, I discovered the Wheel of Time an ancient dance choreographed by cosmic hands. Creation spun its silken threads, weaving galaxies and souls alike. Destruction followed a tempest that razed old structures, leaving barren fields. But within that void, the seeds of rebirth lay dormant. And so, the cycle continued a celestial waltz of birth, death, and renewal.

“Embrace each period,” I vowed to myself, “as petals embrace the rain.” For pain was not an aberration; it was the heartbeat of existence. Struggle was not a detour; it was the roadmap to resilience. And rebirth the phoenix rising from its own ashes was not a distant promise; it was the rhythm of life itself.

And so, I sat with my wounds, cradling them like fragile birds. I watched as the Light seeped through, stitching broken pieces into constellations. It expanded within me, filling the hollows, until I became a vessel a lantern for others to find their way.

“Let that light enter,” I whispered to the night, “and may it radiate, not as a beacon, but as a symphony a melody that echoes across time.”

And in that sacred space, where pain met possibility, I danced a pilgrim on the wheel of existence, spinning toward dawn.

The wound is not a flaw; it is the canvas upon which the universe paints its masterpiece. ??