The Light Remains When You Change

The page is open, but the handwriting feels like it belongs to a stranger. You stare at the dreams written there, the promises made by eyes that no longer exist in your mirror.

It is a specific kind of terror to realize you cannot recognize the person who once believed those things were possible. The night is quiet enough to hear the gap between who you were and who you are.

But listen — the light does not require you to be the same person you were when you wrote those words. That earlier self was just a vessel, and this current self, the one tired and changed and staring at the page, is also a vessel.

The light was in the ink then, and it is in the tears now. You have not lost the source because the container cracked.

The eyes have changed, but the seeing remains. You are not who you were, but you are still held.