They told you to keep moving so you moved. Past the thing that lit you, past the version of yourself that still believed in the work before the work became a strategy. One hundred and forty days of showing up even when the signal was static, even when the vision was fog. But look at the bottom of the stairs something is still burning. Not loud. Not performing. Just there the way passion waits for the one who buried it. This is what it looks like when you stop running and finally sit across from yourself. The light was never gone. I just forgot to come back to it.