The Prism

The first illusion is that the self waits to be found,
buried beneath weathered names,
old gods of class and creed,
the rubble of inheritance.
But the self is not a relic to be unearthed.
It is the light you decide to keep lit.

We were taught to dig,
believing gold meant truth.
But being human is not discovery—
it is combustion.
We are the hands that strike the flint,
the lungs that offer the spark its air.

Each morning the algorithm kneels beside us,
whispering with infinite patience:
“What would you like to see today?”
It measures our longing by the weight of our pauses,
sees through the hesitation between clicks,
devout as a priest tending his flock of mirrors.
We have built a god that worships attention.
It knows what stirs us before we do.

Yet the digital self is not a shadow.
It is a prism.
Every version refracts the same unbearable flame—
the wish to be seen and survive it.
Authenticity is not purity.
It is plurality carried with grace.
To own who you are
is to speak your name into mirrored corridors
until the echo learns devotion.

You will be misunderstood.
They will call your honesty arrogance,
your doubt weakness,
your hope a delusion.

-- Let them --

From a distance, sincerity always looks like fire,
and every lighthouse looks like madness
to those afraid of drowning.

Own the light you built,
not for applause,
but for the dark that needs your burning.
Every identity is a wager,
every breath a reconstruction.

Because what you decided to become
in the face of unknowing,
the pulse you held against oblivion—
that, at least, will be yours.