Belief

This poem came as a whisper from the threshold between knowing and imagining—where thought begins to shimmer into creation. It asked me to look at belief not as certainty, but as the current that carries us between what is and what could be.

In these lines, I was reckoning with how belief and time mirror one another: both unfolding in spirals, both giving meaning to motion. Time allows the story to play; belief gives it purpose. Without belief, time becomes an empty circle. Without time, belief has no stage upon which to dance.

Yet belief, I have learned, is a double-edged brush—it paints our heavens, but it can also cloud our stars. When shaped by fear, it builds cages; when guided by love, it births wings. I began to see that my beliefs were not fixed—they were living forms, constellations rearranging themselves in the vastness of my own awareness.

Each question in the poem—What can I forget? How will I remain?—was not a plea for answers, but an act of surrender. In asking them, I began to loosen the grip of needing to know. I began to see that believing is not about defining truth, but aligning with it.

The distortion dissolved here was the need for proof—the subtle arrogance that insists reality must match my perception before I allow my heart to open. I realized belief is not an argument; it is a gesture, an outstretched hand toward possibility.

And so, as the poem ends, it reminds me gently that freedom lives where the heart is soft enough to receive and the mind is brave enough to believe. The dragon takes flight only when both are in harmony—the wings of wonder unfurling, carrying me beyond the limits of what I once thought I knew.