Excitement or fear—
my higher mind observes.
It knows the edge.
Trying to build something
from the ashes of an old life
sounds poetic.
But when you rise,
you rise with every memory
etched into your bones.
Is that what we want?
Because it’s familiar?
So we keep the pain.
Because maybe—
deep down—
we think we deserve it.
The poet once wrote:
“Fire told the empty man,
humans are only good
when they carry pain.”
Society loves that narrative.
That suffering means virtue.
But I don’t buy it.
I am not built from common sense.
I am neurodivergent—
a contradiction to evolution.
I don’t belong on the tree.
I am the branch
bending outward,
looking for something new.
I believe I’ve lived many lives—
born like a phenix in every life,
not rising from the ashes,
but walking through them.
Learning.
Not carrying.
And still—
slowly, painfully—
learning.
Marzieh B blog 