Lumière Parfaite

For so long, life felt like an endless night — a sky unbroken, vast, and silent.
Countless beautiful lights dotted the darkness, scattered like stars above frost-kissed forests. Each shone with its own glow, beautiful, yet none could pierce the night, none could turn it into day. I searched, reaching, hoping, to no avail.

Then, a light burst forth, impossibly bright.
A Virtuous star erupted, striking brighter than all the rest.
Its warmth poured into the void, igniting the frozen shadows around me. It was perfection — a flawless, infinite brilliance, so profound it defied reason.
As if the universe itself had opened, revealing a vérité that could not be explained, only felt.

It wasn’t merely beauty, nor desire — it was the light incarnate. An ocean of certainty and awe, a knowing so absolute it eclipsed thought, a force that could not be measured, only experienced.
It touched me like a soft vent du nord, a northern wind carrying whispers in a voice that seemed to bid adieu à l’ombre. Its glow left subtle traces, small signs for those attuned enough to see — a language inscribed in lumineuse éclat, a brilliance that lingered, alive, resplendent, and unmistakable.

And then I understood: I could never hold this brightness.
This lumière parfaite, this proof of something greater. I was just a passing stranger.
When the realisation came, it receded, the night returned, but differently.
Like switching off the lights, my eyes strained, adjusting slowly to a darkness now deeper for having glimpsed what I could never possess. Nothing else would ever glow the same way.

Yet even in the emptiness, the memory burns.
It is both pain and gift, grief and hope entwined.
I cannot touch it, but I cannot deny it.
And perhaps that is enough — to know, without doubt, that such light is real, that a single presence once illuminated my sky, leaving traces only some might ever recognize, even if only for a moment.