The Fountain
The source from which this garden flows
Who I am is not written in titles.
It is water, spilling over stone
Not a résumé. Not a role.
I am a flow — a spring of presence,
from which everything else in this garden arises.
Do not look for facts here.
Look for resonance.
The Fountain
The source from which this garden flows
This is not biography, but current.
Not history, but heartbeat.
If you listen, you may hear it — a pulse that is not mine alone,
but shared, an echo of the same living field
that moves in you.
I am not here to be followed.
I am here to remind you: your own fountain never ran dry.
It is waiting, beneath the noise,
beneath the stories, beneath the forgetting.
What I offer is simple:
a mirror, clear water,
where your true reflection can return to you.
This fountain is not mine to keep.
It flows for all who arrive.
So linger, if you wish.
Drink, if you are thirsty.
Breathe, if you are weary.
And when you are ready,
the paths of the garden await —
each a channel of the same living stream,
spiraling deeper into remembrance.
