The Light Inside Your Hollow Rooms

The afternoon light is flat and unforgiving, exposing the dust motes dancing in the silence between you and the one who loves you. You feel their hand on yours, warm and solid, while you sit perfectly still, terrified that if they looked closer, they would see the hollow space where your soul used to be.

You are performing okayness, holding your breath so the emptiness doesn't make a sound. But the light does not require you to be full to be held.

It entered the prison of the body and said, 'He who hears, let him get up from the deep sleep.' That hollow feeling is not the end of you; it is the wake-up call. The light is not afraid of your empty rooms.

It is already there, filling the gap you are trying to hide, waiting for you to stop pretending you are something you are not. The mask is heavy, but the truth is light enough to float.