Some evenings ago, after yet another day spent doing the right things in the wrong way, a sincere tear traced a path down someone’s face. It was not self-pity, nor pity. It was the sign that something inside remained still alive.
Despite the years, the wrong choices, the people who had tried to extinguish their light. Descending, that tear touched a point that was thought to be buried long ago: the innocent one.
This is not the naive innocence of someone who ignores the world. It is the innocence of someone who knows the world all too well, but has decided not to become like them. Of someone who has chosen not to wear the mask, not to barter their essence for a seat at the table of cynics. Inside, they still feel like a boy. Not out of immaturity, but because they have never stopped believing that purity is measured in choices, not in years.
Every day, someone tries to soil it. The system, toxic relationships, the idiots who speak only to fill the void. They repeat that he must be hard, distrustful, performant. That tenderness is weakness. That white light is for the deluded.
He does not believe it. He has learned that the absence of dreams is not a failure: it is an open space, a fertile silence. There, where he stops chasing, he can finally meet himself.
And he has learned that the greatest glory is not winning over others, but not becoming like them. It is remaining oneself even when they mock you, ignore you, call you mad.
Do not touch the innocent. Because the innocent, in the end, always prevails. Not over the world, but over himself. And that is the only victory that counts. His strength lies not in hardness, but in the silent resistance to letting himself be corrupted.
It lies in looking at the mud and deciding that the mud stays outside. It is not muscular strength; it comes from afar, from that irreducible point that no bitter experience has ever scratched.
If someone tells him he is too old to dream, too fragile to resist, too good to survive, he does not believe it.
His white light does not go out, it cannot. It is the only thing he has carried with him from birth and the only thing he will carry to the end. He can lose everything: the job, the money, the position, the respect of those who never truly knew how to look at him. But that light remains. It is the trademark of the soul, the signature that no injustice can erase.
He is innocent. And this is his strength. He does not need to prove anything to anyone, he does not need to convert the cynics, he does not need to save the irredeemable. He only needs to continue shining without permission. Because the true revolution, today, is precisely this: being who you are in a world that wants you different.
And doing it without hatred, without preaching, without the need to recruit followers. Just a sincere tear, a silent choice, a whisper in the dark of evening: do not touch the innocent.
Those who must understand will understand; those who must not will pass on.
But the light, meanwhile, will already be lit.
And no one will extinguish it.
RVSCB
