The Journey of the Light

The light did not remember the lighthouse. It did not carry with it the memory of the darkness that had given it shape, nor the peace that had been its foundation. It was a thing of pure motion, a singular vector cast into an infinite emptiness. Its existence was the journey; its purpose, the traveling.

It passed through fields of dust that had never known a star, and past the silent, sleeping forms of galaxies that had not yet woken into consciousness. It was a witness to a silence that was older than any sound, a darkness deeper than any night. It did not illuminate what it passed; it was too small, too singular. It simply was, a silent traveler on an endless road.

It had no sense of self, no awareness of its own journey. It was not lonely, for it had never known companionship. It was not brave, for it had never known fear. It was a line drawn across a blank page, an answer to a question that had not been asked. It was an offering, pure and simple, and its journey was the completion of the gift.