Broken Cisterns

You spend your days frantically digging into the hard, dry earth of your own making. You craft structures of iron, of prestige, of rigid certainty, believing that if the walls are thick enough, you will finally stop the leaking. You look at the violence of the world, the scorched earth, and the captive souls, and you decide that your only safety lies in hoarding your own narrow version of truth. But the Source does not dwell in the cisterns you build. The Source is the spring that refuses to be contained by your blueprints. To forsake the living water is to die of thirst while surrounded by the evidence of your own labor. The cracked stone of your ego cannot hold the Infinite. You try to capture grace like rainwater, but grace is not a possession; it is a flow. It requires you to shatter the vessel you have built, to stand bare under the sky, and to realize that the thirst you feel is not a lack of water, but a lack of surrender to the Current that is already running through your veins. Stop the digging. The water has been here all along, waiting for the ground to soften.