I am not the name, not the story, not the thought. I am the space where all forms are caught. Not the wave, not the light, not the gleaming— I am the stillness behind all meaning.

I am not the mass, not the field, not the fire. I am the pause beneath all desire. Not the form, nor the sound, nor the listening— I am the quiet witnessing.

I am not the rise, not the fall, not the flame. I am the source before the name. Not the edge, not the echo, not the drifting— I am the quiet witnessing.

I am not the path, nor the step, nor the goal. I am the depth inside the soul. Not the voice, not the self that keeps insisting— I am the quiet witnessing.

There was a field where the grasses ran free, where no foot measured the softness of earth, where hunger was brief as the passing rain, and thirst was a kiss from the open sky.

There were fruits enough for the wandering hand, and beasts who bowed only to wind and moon. No walls, no bargains, no slow-counted days— only the hum of a world unowned.

But a hand, curious and trembling, gathered stones where none were needed. A shelter was born; a garden was claimed— the first house rose on the sleeping plain.

And with it, a gate. And with it, a key. And soon a fence, a weight, a need— names for things that once had no names.

The field grew smaller. The breath grew thin. The fruit grew rare on the counted branch. And the stars, once close enough to catch, receded behind the smoke of kitchens.

They said “This is triumph”. They said “This is home”.

But still, some nights, when the stones forget their shape, and the locked gates dream of rust— a scent of wild wheat, a whisper of unnamed rivers returns through broken walls, calling not to the hands, but to the hollow behind the ribs— where something ancient still remembers how it once felt to be free.

Not by hands that hammer, not by lips that plead, not by minds that map the sky— the threshold is crossed.

The gates you seek are not gates, the road you follow is not a road. They shimmer where breath forgets its shape, where the self kneels inside its own shadow.

You cannot storm what is not walled. You cannot seize what has already given itself. You must melt— like frost when the hidden sun passes by.

Fold your wings, O seeker. Die a thousand soft deaths. Let your voice crack into silence, let your thirst hollow you wider than the wind.

Only then— where no footsteps fall, where no hands build— you will find you were already Home.