POEM ABOUT THE SUN

There is an ancient poem about the Sun. In it, the luminary is a young deity, born each morning in the east, making its arduous journey across the firmament, granting life to the world, and by evening, having melted away, dies in the west. It does this day after day, aware of the inevitable end. Its path is an act of pure generosity and pure doom.

This series is a domestic poem about the Sun. Her name is Vasilisa.

So, what is the meaning of living?

The poem answers not with reason, but with a rhythmic metaphor. The meaning is not in avoiding the sunset. The meaning is in faithfulness to the path. In, knowing about futility (the forest, the night, mortality), still performing one's daily feat of radiation.

To grieve — yet still shine. To feel the tightness of branches — yet still break through them as a ray of light. To know that all will die — and precisely for that reason, gather them now on this log, in this frame, in this golden hour of quiet family joy.

The photo of Vasilisa in the forest is not the anxious plot of a folk tale. It is a moment of silence when light gathers strength for a new cycle. Her sun-like nature is not naive joy, but courage. It is a choice: to burn, not to smolder. To light the path for others, even if your own leads into the thicket. And in this burning, in this act of unconditional spending of oneself for others — lies the victory over futility.

We are all small, solitary luminaries. And our common galaxy is held together by the fact that we, knowing our own finitude, continue to shine for each other nonetheless.