The Light Within

Sometimes, on the edge of twilight, when the city breathes deeper and shadows gain flesh, a light appears that belongs neither to the sun, nor to lamps, nor to the stars. It is a thin, almost invisible light that streams from within — from that place where the soul has not yet learned to be human.

You walk down the street and suddenly notice: a window reflecting a sky that isn’t there. A bird whose shadow flies ahead of its body. A leaf falling upward. It’s not an illusion — it’s the truth leaking through a crack in reality. In these moments, the soul — eternal and silent — remembers itself. Remembers that it is not thought, not name, not story. It is light.

There is no greater reality than the one we carry within us

— wrote Gabriel García Márquez. And it is true. The mind may doubt, argue, search. But the soul simply knows. It does not explain. It burns.

There are souls whose faces you will never remember, but whose presence will remain inside you, like the glow of fire in a darkened room. They do not speak of meaning — they are the meaning. You may not understand them, but you cannot help but feel them.

And perhaps we are not people with souls, but souls temporarily clothed in bodies, here to set free the light trapped in the dense world of matter. A light that defies logic, holds no shape, but guides us — by touch, through dreams, into the unknown, where everything finally becomes itself.

In that light, between inhale and exhale, between words left unsaid, you suddenly know: you are eternal. You were before and will be after. Not as memory, not as name, but as radiance beyond thought.

And when the mind grows quiet, the soul begins to sing.