
Lagna in fire signs moves first. The body arrives before the voice. You don’t wait to be seen. You are already in the room. Bold, not loud. Clear, not sharp. A fire that speaks in stillness.
You don’t ask, you begin anyway. People look without knowing the reason. Your step holds something unshaken, true. Even silence carries a kind of flame. You burn slowly, without asking permission. Something in you refuses to dim.
This rising lives in quiet motion. Even when unsure, you move forward. There’s no map, only inner direction. You trust what rises without warning. The spark comes. You follow it. No one taught you this rhythm.
In love, you arrive like warmth. Not soft, but deeply, openly real. You love in full, never halfway. When you stay, people feel more. When you leave, your echo lingers. They remember how you made space.
You create from restlessness, from fire. Not to show, but to release. The act matters more than outcome. You speak through action, not display. Your art doesn’t ask—it exists. It moves even when you don’t.
Faith is movement, not still belief. You find meaning while in motion. You keep going without full answers. The way forward becomes your truth. You rise again, even when aching. That, too, is a kind of fire.
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