Distant Presence

In moments of solitude, light appears in unexpected shapes.
It filters through broken walls, shimmers across old mirrors, or glows between branches, quiet reminders of something out of reach.

Light becomes a metaphor, a fragile opening into being, into hope. A hope that often feels hollow. A hope for an end to the spiral of violence, death, and destruction. Perhaps, just perhaps, a smile at sunrise.
But now, the light no longer filters gently through leaves. It breaks through the ruins of collapsed buildings, pale and flickering in smoke and fire.

This brief glimpse of hope can vanish with dawn, undone by a single blast. Being, life, existence, this is how fragile they are.
And I, detached, stay at a distance, watching this theatre.