The Light Loves Your Stillness

The afternoon demands motion. You keep moving because you are terrified that if you finally stop, the silence will reveal there is nothing left inside you.

You fear that when the performance ends, everyone will see the empty room and walk away. But the light does not love you for your noise.

It loves you for your presence. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the speech. He ran.

Before the apology, before the proof of worth—he ran. The light is not afraid of your stillness.

It is not looking for a show. It is looking for you.

You do not have to manufacture substance to be held. The light was there before the first step, and it will be there when you finally sit down.

Your exhaustion is not a signal that you are empty; it is a signal that you are human. And the light is already resting inside the very place you are trying to hide.