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the fire.

at first, the fire, it burns you. but when you bring it inside, you can sit down to that breakfast of humble pie, with a heaping side of exile, and a dollop of rejection served in a chipped ramekin. this is your daily bread. it’s what God prepared for you, chef’s special. nothing like just-squeezed grapefruit juice to wash down the bitterness that has now become sweet. you take your coffee black, hot and fresh, or stale from the night before; it doesn’t matter. because this is everything you need. and you send the dirty dishes back clean. breakfast is the morning ritual that grounds you.

the fire burns until you become it. anything meant to smother the flames just makes the fire burn bigger and brighter than before. nothing can put it out, now that you love your fate. amor fati. you know what you’re here to do. the warrior’s only duty is to live in the moment and die with honor, recognized by himself alone. to be of one mind, unattached and knowing nothing. hagakure.

true sovereignty is to serve. at his essence, the good king is a good servant. moral pride is a dangerous illusion; you must meet each day with sharper discernment into the failings of yesterday that must be cleared today. and that’s why you need a breakfast that nourishes you.