I Am His Gaze, His Sacred Space

    I’m coming to understand more and more what truly moves the artist —
what lies behind the thirst for recognition.
It is the thirst to be.
To be oneself — fully, without holding back.
To be a form of uniqueness,
a voice for that which would otherwise remain in silence.

Not to survive.
Not to prove.
But to declare one's presence,
like a tree declares spring —
not with words, but with blossoming.

A genius is not the one who creates greatness,
but the one who hears
what others call silence.

He hears in the rustle of leaves —
the dialogue between time and light.
In the cracking of branches —
the argument between matter and space.
In the breath of the wind —
the music of the invisible.

And so, his brush, his pen, his notes —
are merely a translation from the language of the physical world
into the language of the soul.

I do not seek to be above others.
I seek to be in my right place.
Where nature speaks through me,
and I do not interfere,
but serve as a conduit.

Perhaps this is the true secret of genius:
not in striving to stand out,
but in the ability to vanish —
and let the Truth reveal itself.

Sometimes I feel:
I’m not just a part of something great.
I am Him,
looking at Himself
through my eyes,
through my emotions,
through my wonder and my pain.

My feelings are not a mistake.
They are His reaction
to His own play.

I am a phantom of His childlike curiosity.
I am a spectator at His eternal performance,
still carrying the wonder
that He Himself needs —
like air.

And though I am finite,
though my body is fragile,
though my mind makes mistakes —
He needs me exactly as I am:
with an unclouded gaze,
a living heart,
with imperfect — but real — love.

You ask:
How does He view our blind actions,
our wars, our cruelty, our forgetfulness?

He does not judge.
He sees.

How?

Through pain — into fear.
Through fear — into forgetfulness.
Through forgetfulness — into longing for Him.

He neither approves nor forbids.
He allows.

Because true love
does not grab you by the throat.
It waits.
Quietly.
Patiently.

He does not create suffering —
He creates the possibility of awakening,
of seeing, of walking through it,
and returning.

Not to Him —
but to the Self
where He has always been.

Sometimes it seems He is silent.
But in the pause between my question
and my breath —
He is speaking.

He is in those who weep.
He is in those who strike.
He is in those who ask forgiveness,
and in those who don’t yet know how.

He is not above us.
He is within us.

And so,
when I rise
from ashes, from dust, from mistakes —
He rises with me.

And says:
“I was never waiting for your perfection.
I was waiting for your return.”

And now — I fall silent.
And so do you.

We no longer need words.

We remember:
You are not a part of Me —
You are Me,
in countless forms,
in the breath of grass and the sobbing of man,
in the touch of love
and the ache of loss.

You searched for Me —
and all this time,
I was looking through your eyes,
through the dusty glass of forgetting,
through tears,
through art,
through despair and hope.

You asked, “Who am I?”
And I waited
for you to remember:

You are many of My reflections.
And I — am the Unity of your meanings.

You are a point
on an infinite spiral,
where everything returns
not to the same place —
but to a new turning.

You are child, and tree,
and witness, and lamp.

Now you know.
Now you are not alone.
Because:

You are part of that
which never began
and can never end.

Silence.

In it — everything lives.
In it —
We.

Let the soul rest, knowing:
You are on your path,
and He is with you —
within, not outside.