Before light
had somewhere
to go.

In the beginning there was only expansion. No up, no down. Just a field of possibility cooling into form. You are a photon with nowhere to land.

Dust learns
to hold itself.

Gravity is patient. Over millions of years, debris finds orbit, collides, melts, remembers it is a planet. A sphere hot enough to glow from within.

The world
exhales.

Water condenses. The crust wrinkles. On the wound between ocean and air, something spreads — not designed, but inevitable. Life as geometry.

Light
returns to itself.

After all this travelling — from star to stone to cell — light finally does the only thing it ever wanted: to be seen. You are the eye it was looking for.