The answer may be uncomfortable. Cannot control another's choices, cannot make them appreciate, cannot make them communicate honestly, cannot make them respect what is offered.

I wonder who has said this about me. I do things and others may think they have to accept and let me because they cannot control my choices. This implies my choice is different than the one they would have chosen. This disagreement doesn't have to be anything if everyone is letting everyone else. Someone could provide me information so I make better choices. Would I listen? I may not be aware of something to appreciate it. If I were aware, would I slow down and appreciate what is? Does fear, shame, or embarrassment affect my ability to communicate honestly? Have I cultivated enough empathy, compassion, and humility to show respect to the offerings of others?

If you knew your pet would die in 30 days, every marriage ends by the way, it ends in death or divorce, and it's odd because what we're saying is, "I hope this ends in death."

We've got 30 days with this cat. Now, would you take $100 million to sell me that cat?

Absolutely not!

You're telling me, you would trade a lifetime of financial security for 30 days with an animal that is about to be gone anyway?

I wouldn't do it. I would actually want to keep her more because I only have 30 days.

That's love.

The wound is the hollowing so that a song may come. Without that hollowing, no song would come. So praise even the sharpness that cut you open for it prepared you for this nectar. Come closer, you are still trembling, still afraid of the fire. You think if you step into it you will be burned into ash. Do you not know that fire has two natures? And there is the fire that transfigures. Poetry is the second fire. The flame of the friend. When you enter this fire, you do not perish. You become luminous. The coal thought it was only darkness, until the flame kissed it. And then it realized it had always been fire in disguise. So let poetry be that flame for you. Let it kiss you until you remember that you too are fire.

Rumi is an incredible poet. He impresses me with each new writing of his. They are new to me. The writings are almost a thousand years old. This dude was writing some advanced thoughts for his time, and to me it seems a mix of philosophy and life. That thought needs a bit more explanation. What is the philosophy part and which is the life part and how do they mix? That would be the question to answer to give a better chance at clarity of meaning.

But, it is not logic that teaches the rose to open, it is the secret language of the sun, whispering in silence. Poetry is that language. And when you hear it, something in you turns toward the light, no matter how long you have dwelled in shadow. You, my beloved, carry bruises that no one can see. You walk through the market smiling, but your chest is a house of echoes where grief has built its altar. Words of the world cannot touch that altar. They pass by like merchants selling wares. Bright, loud, and quickly forgotten, but the words of poetry are not words. They are birds. They perch inside your chest. They build a nest. They sing, and slowly, your altar of grief becomes an alter of praise. Not because the sorrow is gone. But because the sorrow has been embraced. Poetry takes the thorn and teaches you to see the rose.

You think poetry is written by poets. But poetry writes itself. The ocean throws waves against the rocks. Not because it chooses to, but because it cannot help it. The night sky scatters stars. Not because it plans, but because it overflows. In the same way, poetry pours from the unseen, and we are merely flutes hollowed to let the sound through. When you let poetry enter you, you are not learning from me or from any poet. You are learning from the divine breath itself, from the source that carved your spirit out of light.

Healing does not mean erasing pain. Healing means learning to dance with it, until pain becomes rhythm. Healing means sitting with your sorrow, until sorrow whispers secrets of joy. Poetry teaches you this dance. This listening. This art of surrender. It teaches you to let the wound sing. To let the scar shine. To let the silence speak. It teaches you to stop asking, "why am I broken" and to start singing, "how beautiful is this crack through which the light enters."

You and I are not two. We are reflections in the same wine. The words I speak are not mine. They rise from the fire of love. From the silence that dances inside all things. Hear them with your heart. Not your ears. And you will taste the healing you seek. When the heart breaks, the spirit bends low. But poetry is the hand that lifts it, saying, "rise, you are not finished." When the spirit feels dry, poetry is the rain.

Again, these are not my words. These are inspired from Rumi, and I do aspire to write in poetic fashion like this guy. He's good. That makes me wonder, how many writers were amazing, the best even, but their works were destroyed. So much writing has been preserved, but so much more has been lost. What makes a better writer? What makes a better painter? The answer may lie in the eye of the beholder. The audience decides who's better, right? But are there certain things that make for universal acceptance?

Like the words above. They represent a softer truth. It is an invitation to see rather than a demand to accept. It is not an argument. A picture does not argue, it allows the viewer to see what is there. Poetry does not argue, but it allows the listener to see. Time does not heal wounds. Love does.