THE BLURRED SELF

When the World Is Clear and I Am Not

I am the closest in this picture. Right there, near the lens. The camera should have found me. It should have caught me clear. But it didn’t. I’m blurred. My face, my edges, all of me… softened into nothing.

And yet everything else—the walls, the path, the lights, everything stands sharp. Still. Almost arrogant in its clarity.

It stings to look at it. Because it isn’t just a photograph. It is a reminder of something I’ve been living.

I keep giving myself away. Piece by piece. In caring. In listening. In carrying others so they don’t fall. And while I was busy holding everyone else in focus, I let go of myself. I faded.

You don’t notice it when it begins. That’s the cruel part.

It starts small like choosing silence instead of speaking, choosing someone else’s comfort over your own. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You tell yourself it’s love. And you keep doing it. Over and over.

Until one day, you stop recognizing yourself. Until one day, you look in the mirror or in a photograph and you see what I see here: a blur. A presence that feels like an absence.

And it makes me ask—what does it mean to live like this?

To stand so close and yet be unseen.

To exist in the frame but never belong to it.

To feel yourself dissolve, slowly, until even you forget what your own edges feel like.

This picture doesn’t just capture me. It exposes me.

It tells me that while the world sits neatly in its place, glowing, untouched… I am the one who disappears. I am the one who forgot to hold on to myself.

And maybe that’s the deepest ache: not that others couldn’t see me, but that I forgot to see myself.