Refraction

Light doesn't move through clear glass— it remembers itself only when scattered, when dust particles catch its path and remake the invisible visible.

We are like that, perhaps. Transparent until we break, luminous only in our faults, the way a prism reveals what was always there.

Even breath becomes visible in cold air, not because it changes but because we finally see the architecture of what moves through us— the ghost shaped by collision with the ordinary world.