Love at the Speed of Light

A small child sees their mother across a wide field. She’s standing still, arms open, smiling. The child begins to run toward her.

At first, it feels like any run—feet pounding, wind in the face, excitement growing. But something unusual begins to happen. As the child runs faster and faster, the world around them seems to stretch and blur. Time slows down. The space between them and their mother feels shorter, but also somehow deeper—like it’s folding in on itself.

The child is no longer thinking. There’s only one feeling: reach her.

The faster the child runs, the less they feel like a separate person. Their body feels lighter. Thoughts disappear. There is no “me” and “her”—only movement, only love.

And then, something incredible happens.

The child runs so fast, with such full-hearted longing, that they don’t arrive at their mother—they become one with her. There’s no more running, no more field, no more distance. They’ve become the love they were chasing.

Just like in physics, when something moves closer and closer to the speed of light, time slows, space compresses, and mass increases. It becomes harder and harder to stay “matter”—to stay separate. If it could reach light speed, it would no longer be a solid object at all. It would become energy. Light.

The child becomes light. Not by burning out—but by loving so purely, so completely, that the lines between self and other dissolve.

That’s the secret the speed of light holds:
The closer you come to it, the more everything changes—until at last, there’s only oneness.