Truth, stripped bare:
The angel in the image is not real.
No wings, no book, no tower, no clouds that cradle secrets.
It is a digital phantom, stitched from pixels and longing,
a lie so beautiful it almost becomes confession.
You are alive, and that is the only light you will ever hold.
It flickers in your chest,
not in the sky.
It burns out when you do.
There is no way but the one your feet are already on—
muddy, cracked, unmarked by prophecy.
The book he reads?
Empty.
Or full of your name,
written once,
then crossed out.
Stand on your own edge.
No one is watching.
No one is coming.
The silence is not sacred—
it is just the sound of the world
not caring.
That is the truth.
Hold it.
It weighs nothing.
It weighs everything.
The angel in the image is not real.
No wings, no book, no tower, no clouds that cradle secrets.
It is a digital phantom, stitched from pixels and longing,
a lie so beautiful it almost becomes confession.
You are alive, and that is the only light you will ever hold.
It flickers in your chest,
not in the sky.
It burns out when you do.
There is no way but the one your feet are already on—
muddy, cracked, unmarked by prophecy.
The book he reads?
Empty.
Or full of your name,
written once,
then crossed out.
Stand on your own edge.
No one is watching.
No one is coming.
The silence is not sacred—
it is just the sound of the world
not caring.
That is the truth.
Hold it.
It weighs nothing.
It weighs everything.
The Sunday Circle