Yet the light does not separate—
treating all equally,
it allows distinctions
while leaving whole.
Sorrow inevitably leads to darkness,
for nothing is further from the light than suffering.
We seek answers.
Yet what if the light is not an answer,
but rather pure question?
The light
has no need
of joy.
Falling, shining, glowing, glittering, radiating...
so many acts were assigned the light.
And yet she did but one,
and not even that an action—
for she was naught but illumination.
One morning, upon seeing the glow filtered through a dirty window,
i was forced to confront the true extent of my poverty.
Yet she, who had nothing, was pure opulence.
in her whimsy
sometimes she was blinding
While i laid there exhausted,
the light continued to dance
—she simply never wearied.
Despite appearances,
the light never stands still
(and i only pretend to).
She doesn't awaken us;
she only reminds us
that we are already.
. .
It was impossible for her to say goodbye.
the light flees
but never away
always towards
She was everywhere i looked,
ensuring that i was always aware
of my blindness.
those few who did not seek to restrain the light
could not hide their halo
while for the rest their own nimbus
obscured her
"Seek me," the light suggested.
"You will find that i even reveal my own nothingness."
"I am not living," she confessed. "Yet i am life."
While i... merely the walking dead.
some hear the song of silence
quieter still is the song of light
yet unlike silence the light
never stops singing
