The Light Does Not Curdle When Seen
The day is ending, and the armor you wore for twelve hours finally feels heavy enough to drop. You know the moment: a stranger's gaze slips where it shouldn't, and your voice dies in your throat, waiting for the disgust you are sure is coming.
But the light that lives inside you does not curdle when it is seen; it only shines more clearly in the dark. You are not defined by where their eyes wandered, but by the truth that walks out of the room with you.
The silence after the stumble is not a verdict; it is simply the space where you remember you are still whole.
Drawing from
1 John, Gospel of Thomas
Verses
1 John 2:10, Thomas 24
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