The Light Does Not Need Your Apology

The water is still running, but your mouth is moving faster, rehearsing the speech you never got to give. You are scrubbing the silence off your skin, trying to make yourself clean enough to be heard.

But the light does not need your apology to see you. It saw you before the first word was formed in your throat.

You came from the light, the place where it generates itself, and you are returning there not because you said the right things, but because you are there. The one you are pleading with in the steam is already standing inside you, not waiting for a verdict, but waiting for you to stop talking and finally rest.

You do not have to convince the light to love you; it is the origin you cannot escape.