The Two Fires
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Imagine.
Before the noise, there was silence. Before the rush, stillness. And then—light. Not soft light. Not symbolic. Light that split the darkness with force. Light that meant order. Clarity. Beginning. The skies were drawn out. The waters lifted. Earth rose, rough and sacred. Green reached from dust, stretching toward what it couldn’t yet name. The sun stood guard. The moon answered. The stars etched maps across night. Time began not with ticking, but with movement. Purpose. Rhythm. Flow.
Then breath. Then man. Then woman. Not kings. Not animals. Carved in reflection—not to rule over, but to mirror something infinite. They were given power. And they were given choice. And that changed everything.
Two fires were lit.
Fire number one burned with quiet strength. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t beg to be seen. Its heat came from truth; its light, from trust. Around it stood people unmasked, unafraid of being known. They didn’t decorate their lives with half-truths or perform for approval. When storms came, they braced together. When things broke, they built back with bare hands. Pain wasn’t hidden—it was honored. Shared. They didn’t pose as unbreakable; they simply refused to turn away. They spoke when words carried weight. They listened like presence was power. And when mistakes came, they faced them—no spin, no scapegoats. They lived without scorecards, rooted in what was real. These people didn’t chase legacy, but left it anyway. Not because they shined—but because they endured. When they left, they didn’t disappear. They remained—etched into the lives they touched. Real.
The second fire began no differently. It held the same promise, drew the same people. But something changed. A moment came—small, almost invisible—when one person faced a choice: sacrifice for the whole or protect their own gain. A resource was short. A need rose. And instead of speaking up, instead of giving or leaning in—they pulled back. Just a little. Just enough to feel safer, smarter, untouched. Not with violence. Not with words. Just quiet self-preservation dressed as wisdom. But trust bent. The center shifted. Another followed. Then another. Not out of hatred—but out of fear. Broken trust doesn’t crash down. It seeps. And fear spreads like smoke, reshaping what once stood firm. Truth became selective. Love turned transactional. Loyalty, a performance. They stayed close, but no one felt safe. Smiles widened while eyes watched. Words floated, but none landed. The fire still burned—but it burned image, not substance. Its warmth vanished, replaced by illusion. And none of them noticed the cold creeping in—until it had taken everything real. Gone.
And from that fracture, the world divided. Two fires. Two ways of living. One built slow, deep, steady. The other hollow, polished, fast. The second fire swept through culture like wildfire. It promised more—more reach, more shine, more control. But beneath the glow, it drained something sacred: peace. Purpose. Presence. Until one day, those living in it realized they’d traded truth for applause—and didn’t even know how or when it happened.
Most people live their whole lives in that second fire. Born into it. Raised to perform. Taught that approval is currency, and identity must be manufactured. The message comes early: blend in. Say what sells. Don’t show weakness. Play the part. And for a while, it works. The applause. The metrics. The illusion of control. But inside, something aches. A quiet discomfort. A tension that never rests. Many can’t name it—so they blame themselves. But it isn’t them. They're living in the second fire.
There exists a journey back.
The path back is not paved with comfort. It’s not trendy. It’s not easy. It’s not for the faint of heart. It demands more than surface change. It asks for a complete shedding. It pulls comfort from your hands. It silences the noise you once depended on. It reveals the self beneath the script. And it hurts. But it heals. Because once that original warmth touches your soul, even briefly, something buried begins to rise. And you’ll never want to go back.
Some carry that first fire. Not because it’s easy—but because it’s true. They don’t seek the spotlight. They walk with light. They don’t perform. They live with integrity. They speak with clarity. They move with weight. They walk beside others who would rather lose in truth than win in lies. They aren’t looking for status. They’re looking for something real. Something rooted.
They don’t feed the fire that flatters. They carry the fire that refines—the one that doesn’t flicker when the world forgets. The one that strips illusion and builds what’s made to last. And when the noise fades—when the filters drop—when the world’s stage finally clears—only one fire will remain: the one that never needed validation to burn. Because it is real.
Which fire are you feeding?
God bless.
- Asher Daniel Grand