The light that the body cannot extinguish

(Thought notebook – reflection)

Once upon a time there was a man whose body often indicated:

where it hurt here, where it weakened there, where time took something from him.

Doctors wrote lists about him, diagnoses, codes, letters —

as if the disease were the man, and not the man behind the disease.

But whoever met him saw none of this.

People did not see weakness in him,

but that strange posture,

which remains straight even when the body is tired.

There was no pain reflected on his face,

there was no fear in his movements,

and there was no complaint in his voice.

There was something in him that few people retain anymore:

the simple, pure truth.

He did not talk much about it.

He did not have to.

Anyone who came close to him felt that something inside him was still shining —

something that didn't ignite, but had been there since birth.

The children always ran to him.

The dogs wagged their tails as if they had returned home.

And he said, laughing:

— These people still see clearly.

They haven't learned to believe that the world is complicated yet.

They still feel people, not hear their words.

And perhaps that was the key to the truth.

The man who carried many wounds still walked in the light.

His strength was not in his body, but in the fact that he didn't have to lie to himself or anyone else.

He wasn't afraid of the truth.

He didn't embellish things, because he knew:

embellishing doesn't heal, it only delays.

He preferred to be truthful.

Even if it hurt.

Even if it left him alone because of it.

Even if others were offended.

But those who were in trouble… whose lives had collapsed… who had the ground pulled out from behind… all turned to him.

Because when the appearance disappears from under a person, only one thing can save him:

a pure person who is not afraid of the darkness — because there is light inside.

One day someone asked him:

— How is it possible that after all this trouble you are still so strong?

And he just shrugged his shoulders and said:

— The body can weaken.

The bones can tire.

The heart can slow down.

But if a person has a foothold, then it carries him on, not his muscles.

The light in me does not come from the body.

And it does not pass in the body.

And whoever stood there opposite him understood that there is a light that neither illness, nor time, nor pain can extinguish.

The light of the soul.

Of purity.

Of honor.

Of the straight path.

And this is how this man lived on: not loudly, not spectacularly,

just clearly—with a light that even children recognized,

even dogs felt, and that everyone who looked with their heart instead of their eyes saw.