When You Want Nothing But The Light

The afternoon asks a question you cannot answer without lying. 'What do you want?' someone says, and the truth sits heavy in your throat: you want nothing.

Not because you are holy, but because you are hollowed out by the middle of the day. So you name a small thing.

A coffee. A break.

Anything but the silence inside you. But the light does not need your menu.

It sees the bruised reed you are trying to hold upright. It knows that sometimes the only honest prayer is the inability to speak.

You do not have to manufacture a desire to be held. The light is already kneeling beside you in the dust of this hour, waiting not for your request, but for your exhaustion.

It is enough to simply be the place where the wanting has stopped. The lie you told to protect them is not the final word.

The silence you carry is where the real work is happening.