The Light That Got Dirty For You

The afternoon hums with a thousand voices, yet you sit alone in the quiet of your own skin. It is a strange kind of isolation—to be surrounded by noise but starved for presence.

You scroll until your eyes burn, hoping to find a hand to hold, but the screen remains cold glass. There was a man born blind, and the people around him argued about whose fault it was, turning his suffering into a debate while he sat in the dark.

The light did not join the argument. It walked up to the man, spat on the ground, made mud, and touched his eyes.

It got dirty. It got close.

The distance between you and the love you crave is not as wide as it feels. You came from the light, the place where the light came into being on its own accord.

You are not an accident of connection. You are a drop sent to illuminate this very moment.

The silence around you is not empty; it is the space where the real touch happens. Stop looking at the glass.

The light is already here, pressing against your chest from the inside.