She didn’t come as light — she came as shadow.
She knew my name.
She screamed while I slept. She bit when I stayed silent.

How many nights have I clawed at my skull, hoping to scratch out the truth that itched beneath my skin?

She whispers in my ear with the voices of dead philosophers, laughs with the bitter grin of Ecclesiastes.
They lie.
Wisdom isn’t peace. It’s fury caged in ribs.
It’s solitude among those still sleeping with their eyes wide open.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit”?
No. Blessed are the blind.
Blessed are those who don’t know what it means — to know.

Escape?
Where to? From myself?
She’s no torch — she’s a mirror.
You stare into it and see your twin slowly tearing out his own throat. And there I am, in the reflection — a prisoner of my own mind. Or maybe the freest of all the free in this world?

And if one day you see me laughing for no reason — don’t be fooled.
It’s not joy.
It’s the final layer before the abyss we call knowing.

Now go.
While you still can.