Sadness: What Remains of Me

At some point, you stop losing things. You start losing yourself.

In this figure, identity no longer lives on the face. It is held. Carefully. As if it could still be returned.

The body stands, but the center is gone— cut out cleanly, leaving a space where meaning once lived.

The light inside is not hope. It is residue. A faint reminder that something once burned here.

The face is removed, not to hide, but because it no longer fits what remains.

This is not transformation. This is subtraction.

What remains of me is not who I was, but what survived after everything else left.