| p37 | Fame is a strange fire. From a distance, it glows with such promise—warmth, recognition, perhaps even love disguised as applause. But when you come close, when you hold it in your hands, it often burns. Not because it is evil, but because it reflects the ego back to itself in dazzling, endless mirrors. The self becomes the story, and the story becomes the self . . . and oh, how easy it is to forget the silence beneath it all. |