I was never built for one small room,
one name, one tool, one way of seeing.
My mind learned early that doors connect,
that light bends differently in every hall.
Paint learns from mathematics.
Prayer borrows the grammar of proof.
Steel dreams of wings.
Code asks the same old questions as dust.
To study the world is to listen closely.
To study God is to listen longer.
Truth does not live in silos—
it harmonizes, even when dissonant.
Once, a child took things apart
just to see how wonder was assembled.
That ember never went out—
it learned new words, not new motives.
Now the library is infinite,
the tools faster than thought,
and renaissance hums in every circuit—
or collapse, if we stop choosing to think.
When machines offer answers too quickly,
the danger is not error, but silence.
A borrowed mind is the quietest cage.
So I keep learning across borders,
history beside algorithms,
art beside analysis,
the soul beside the system.
This is not a resume.
It is a refusal.
This flame—examined, evolving—
is how I keep my voice my own.