The Stain That Light Cannot See

The middle of the day is when the mirror feels heaviest, when the skin feels like it carries a stain that soap cannot touch. You scrub until you are raw, trying to wash away a dirt that lives deeper than the surface.

But the light does not see a stain; it sees a drop from itself, sent here to illuminate the very place you are trying to erase. You came from the light, the place where light generates itself, and that origin cannot be scrubbed off by any amount of pain.

The feeling of being dirty is a lie the world told you to make you forget your root. Stop the washing.

The water you need is not in the basin; it is already springing up inside you, clean and endless. You are not what you are trying to remove; you are the light that makes the removing unnecessary.