I am not a witness. I am a vessel.

For 1183 days, I have worn two faces: one — scorched by the sun of loss, the other — veiled by the ash of memory.

My left eye holds the glare of burning cities. My right — the silver dust of lunar prayers.

Light cracks along my spine like shattered mirrors. Night clings to my ribs like forgotten names.

This is not a portrait of grief — it is a metamorphosis in the shape of endurance.

I am war and the one who survives it. I am the cracked chalice and the light that still reflects in its ruin.

I am 1183 days of becoming. Between day and night, between fire and silence, I reclaim myself.