The Light Lives in the Uncarved Stone

The night gathers, and you hear the story of your life played back in a voice that isn't yours. It is the edited version—the one with the rough edges sanded down, the pain smoothed over, the parts that made you real carefully removed.

And the hollow ache comes when you realize they love this smaller story more than they loved you. They love the mask because it fits their hands better than your face.

But you came from the light, the place where the light came into being on its own accord. You did not come from their summary of you.

There is a version of you that exists before the editing, before the shrinking, before the performance began. Split a piece of wood; the light is there.

Lift up the stone; the light is there. It is not hiding in the polished narrative.

It is waiting in the raw, unedited truth of who you are. The world may prefer the statue, but the light lives in the stone before it was carved.