The fuel of life
is not hidden in barrels
beneath ancient stone,
nor refined by fire and steel.
It burns without smoke,
moves without engines,
and leaves no ash behind.

It begins quietly—
a breath taken without thinking,
a heart insisting on its rhythm
even while the mind hesitates.
Before purpose has a name,
before ambition sharpens its teeth,
life is already spending itself
to keep going.

Love is one form of this fuel.
Not the loud kind that announces itself,
but the steady warmth—
the hand that stays,
the voice that returns,
the patience that forgives
without applause.
Love powers endurance
long after strength has quit.

Hope is another.
A reckless substance,
thin but explosive.
It survives in cracks,
feeds on almost nothing,
and still convinces the future
to show up.
Even broken,
hope leaks light.

Curiosity keeps the engine turning.
The child’s why,
the artist’s what if,
the tired soul’s maybe tomorrow.
It pulls us forward
when the road makes no promises,
when answers refuse to appear.

Pain, too, becomes fuel—
not because it is kind,
but because it teaches motion.
From loss, we learn depth.
From failure, direction.
What wounds us
also proves that we are alive
and capable of change.

Time feeds on us
as much as we feed on it.
Each moment consumed
becomes memory,
becomes meaning,
becomes the quiet fire
that shapes who we are
when no one is watching.

The fuel of life
is the will to continue
without certainty.
To rise again
without guarantees.
To choose connection
in a world fluent in distance.

It is fragile.
It must be renewed daily
through kindness, rest, laughter, truth.
Neglected, it dims.
Nurtured, it carries us
far beyond what we thought possible.

And when the flame finally rests,
what remains is not emptiness,
but warmth left behind—
in people changed,
in love given,
in moments that learned
how to last.