Until lately, I had no face — none left to read the outer realm of my own.

There are faces that the sun remembers — not because they are beautiful,

but because they believe in light.

In their eyes burns a patient flame —

the kind that refuses to die even in the coldest season of the soul.


I shouted all my life for the authenticity of the universe.

How can we trust the bottom of the universe

if we don't turn our face deep down into our own head?


Love, if it means anything, is this:

the courage to stay lit even when facing downward —

to our own soul.

It is not the trembling of desire,

but the steady gaze that says, “I will remain.”


Between two beings, the world rehearses its own creation again.

Every touch becomes a Genesis.

Every glance — a renewal of being.


I have been touched by the universal gaze — her gaze —

too authentic not to pursue.

And in that moment, I learned another thing:

Affection is not weakness;

it is the secret strength of existence.


I had worried about my own existence,

but came to know that existence depends on the existence of another —

that existence.

To care for another face,

to tend to another’s silence —

this is not surrender; it is art.


We learn the shapes of tenderness

the way the sea learns to cradle the moon.

There is nothing soft about such love —

it is disciplined fire.


I have long faced my existence downward,

to my own toes,

and even used to ask my toes —


What is beauty?


Beauty is not a surface.

It is the echo of divinity trembling in flesh.


That moment, my entire foundation of being alive was questioned —

but what kind of question was I meant to listen to?


When you truly see someone,

you do not see the form —

you see what dreamed it.


Perhaps that is why faces move us:

because they are the visible ghosts of the infinite.

To love another is to participate in creation itself.


I have anticipated many faces,

touched many faces,

kissed many faces —

but I missed my own face —

which had never been kissed before.


And that was the dedication to the faces of others.


Dedication is a daily resurrection.

We rise each morning not merely to survive,

but to offer ourselves again —

to the same eyes,

the same breath,

the same shared mystery.


This repetition is sacred.

In constancy lies transcendence.


And when affection becomes devotion, it becomes radiant —

two beings glowing like twin suns,

not consuming each other,

but illuminating.


There is no cruelty here, no despair —

only the trembling joy of existing together.


Love is not a fire that burns us;

it is the light that teaches us to glow.


And the faces we love

are the mirrors through which eternity learns to 

smile.


Where is my face?

Where is your face?

How do I define the universal face of being?