范成章

范成章

chengchangfan

The people of India have the most beautiful eyes. Yes, as cheesy as it may sound, but I mean every word. It’s like a candle is lit within them, flickering gently, warm, ancient, and still. Sometimes I wonder how they carry so much light in their gaze, as if mirrors reflecting a version of myself I’ve never truly seen. A kind of shine I’ve never owned. A kind of trust I’ve never dared to give myself. A kind of sacred softness I never knew I needed. Five times I’ve journeyed from Taiwan to India in less than a year, over 4,000 kilometers each way. For escape, and simply searching, for a piece of myself, bit by bit. And each time, wondering if India could offer me a kind of light again. One I could hold, even if just a little, even if only for a moment. Along the way, I passed many temples. But one, small, weathered, and quietly alive, felt like it had been waiting for me all along. Hidden in plain sight, carved by time and silence. I stepped inside barefoot, knelt before its god with trembling breath, and for the first time in a long while, I prayed. Not for success. Not even anything of great importance. But for the courage to return to myself, to the place within me that still remembers how to feel. I prayed that my depression would no longer devour me. That I could crawl out from the darkness, not in a blaze, not in triumph, but gently. That I could finally become the one I once was, or maybe someone even better. That I could have my light back, even one tiny matchstick at a time. Lighting my way, my hope, my belief, my rebirth, flame by flame. Even if it flickers. Even if it almost goes out. Even if I must cup it with both hands to keep it alive. Because even the smallest light is still light. And maybe that’s what makes me feel so different this time. Before, whenever I left India, I felt it deep in my bones. I will return. [comment section Part II]

05.26 22:16

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