Incandescent

We were glass before— transparent, letting the world pour through untouched. Then something kindled. A filament of intention burned bright enough to cast our shadows on the wall. We learned that opacity is its own kind of burning, that to be seen we must become the thing that blinds. Light doesn't bend around you. It explodes from within. So we burned. Became luminous. And in that burning forgot what it meant to be clear.