Intro
In the shadowed attic of old grief, I found those frantic, handwritten letters—blasphemies scratched out by a younger me during a season of unrelenting calamity, heart emptied by pain and the lack of any real help. One page, opened on a whim, carried the desperate lie: “cursing God will fill your pocket with freedom and prosperity.” To that broken boy I now whisper back: I would rather let this flesh scatter into dust across the galaxies than trade honest surrender for any freedom or fortune purchased with curses. True liberty is never bought; it is quietly received in the slow trust that even ruin can become a path to something eternal.
Outro
And so those letters, once venomous screams into the void, now rest quietly folded back into darkness—not erased, but redeemed by time and a grace I once refused to name. The boy who cursed to fill empty pockets learned, slowly, that true wealth arrives not in coins or curses, but in the patient unravelling of pride, in choosing disintegration over defiance, in letting the galaxies keep what was never mine to bargain away. Today I carry no pockets heavy with false freedom; instead I walk lighter, heart stitched together not by prosperity promised, but by the quiet certainty that surrender was always the richer path. The stars still scatter their dust, and I am content to be among it—neither accuser nor merchant, only a traveller finally at home in the vastness.
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