I Am The Author Poem by Mystic Qalandar

To wake this truth
is not a quiet act.
It is the breaking open of sky—
a rising,
as if we remember, all at once,
that the hand holds power
not only to record,
but to shape.

We are the scribes.
Not of stories passed down,
but of fates
we dare to tear and remake.

Each motion—
a breath,
a vow whispered beneath starlight,
where constellations guide
but never command.

Take the pen.
Let the fire spill.
Ink drawn from the soul
births landscapes—
no map has charted.

And yet—
we forget.
Night folds around us.
We dim.
We curse the vessel
that carries our own light.

We pretend.
Masks, games,
names that are not ours.
Echoes wrapped around
a silence we mistake for truth.

But then—
a rupture.
A tear in the veil.

And there—
in the glass,
not a stranger,
not a myth,
but the self—
hand trembling,
face revealed.

No more borrowed flame.
No more fiction.

This is my path.
This is my name.
I write it,
clear and whole.