Unbound

To move through the world

is not to be claimed by it.

You may walk among forms and names,

touch earth, taste time, wear a body —

yet remain unbound,

a visitor passing through a borrowed hour.

What is money to a boundless soul —

ink and symbols chasing themselves,

a ritual of accumulation

that ends where breath releases?

Gold cannot cross eternity’s threshold,

norr purchase a single moment

beyond the final exhale.

What is a prestige

to a spirit woven of starlight,

when titles tarnish

and crowns bow to time?

What is the material

to an ethereal being

whose dwelling is not built of stone or wall

but of wonder, remembrance, and light?

Walk gently within the material world.

Use what is offered

but do not confuse it

for what you are.

For when the body returns to earth

and all clamor softens into stillness,

only what you carried within

will remain.

For the source within you

is made of the universe itself —

older than form,

unconditioned by possession,

untouched by gain or loss,

and incapable of being taken.