Rest When Your Bones Feel Like Dust
The afternoon demands a performance you do not have the strength to give. You force the smile, you nod at the right times, you carry the tray of expectations while your bones feel like dust.
It is a specific kind of exhaustion — the hollow shame of pretending to be whole when you are screaming to collapse. But the light does not need your mask.
It sees the tremor in your hands and the weight behind your eyes. There is a rest that is not earned by finishing the list, but given to the one who simply stops.
The light is gentle enough to hold the parts of you that are breaking. You do not have to hold it together for the sun to stay in the sky.
Drawing from
Matthew, Gospel of Thomas
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