The Lost Lens

It is a lie that people stay the same.
Every dawn remakes them. Every thought, every breath, every ache in the marrow bends them forward into someone you have not yet met.

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But we forgot.
We stacked labels on their faces, stories on their backs, habits on their hands. We called them friend, enemy, lover, stranger, as though that could capture them. As though the pulse of change had ever agreed to sit still.

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A child does not carry this blindness.
To the child, the bird is not “just a pigeon.” It is a sky-blade splitting the air for the first time. To the child, a face is not already known—it is a miracle of shifting expressions, sunlight on skin, a voice never heard in quite this tone.

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Wonder is stolen not by time, but by lies. Lies that tell us we’ve seen this all before. Lies that insist the world is ordinary.

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The truth is change.
The truth is that no one you meet is ever the same as they were. To flow with change is to regain the lens you lost. To look and to know: this is the first time, again.

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So let the familiar dissolve. Let the false sameness rot.
And step into the truth—
that life is nothing but first times, forever.