Illusion

In my dreams, someone approached, a figure with a lampshade in his hands. His face was a blur, the edges of his form lost in twilight. He handed it to me, and I, desperate for light, took it, like a traveler reaching for a mirage in the desert.

Each time I held it, the lamp grew heavier, as if my own desires were weighing it down.

I couldn't understand its purpose, but I knew, somewhere deep, that if I looked inside it long enough, it would reveal the truth of everything I sought.

However, it held no light—only heat, an absence that burned. At that moment, I understood: illusions pull us in because they promise what we crave, but they blind us to what is real.

I wanted to look away, to turn back—but the lamp whispered my name, like Twilight's voice lost in the wind. We wear masks to shield ourselves from the truth. But truth, like the stars, only reveals itself in the dark.