On my desk rests a page of old ink. I keep it by the window. Each day, the light climbs across it, at first gentle, then insistent, and the words surrender a little more of themselves to brightness.
The sun does not intend to erase. The sun simply arrives. The page does not resist. It simply fades. Between them, the quiet truth is drawn that all forms wish to return whence they came.
We speak of impermanence as if it were a thief, when in truth it is a kind archivist, preserving only the essence of what mattered most. The rest, our excess lines and adornments, become warmth, reflection, or the faint scent of paper in late light.
To see the ink disappear is not to lose the message, but to understand it was never meant to last longer than its reader.
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