The Hunger Is Your Compass

It is late, and the hum of the refrigerator is the only sound in the house. You stand there with the door open, the light spilling out onto the floor, feeling a physical revulsion at every option because nothing matches the shape of the hunger inside.

You scroll through the music library with the same hollow ache, skipping track after track because no melody fits the silence you are carrying. This is the specific loneliness of the watch — when the world is quiet enough for you to hear that your soul is starving for something food cannot touch.

But listen — the light does not offer you a snack to distract you from the pain. It offers itself.

There is a bread that does not crumble and a song that does not end. You are not broken because you cannot be filled by the things of this world.

You are built for a different table. The hunger is not a mistake.

It is the compass.