Light Working in the Numbness

The afternoon stretches out, a long gray corridor where the memory of excitement feels like a language you've forgotten how to speak. You try to recall the last time your heart lifted without reason, but the mind offers only static, a hollow echo where joy used to live.

It feels as though the light has dimmed to a pilot light, barely enough to see your own hands. But listen — there is a story of a man born blind, not because of sin, but so that the works of God might be displayed in him.

His darkness was not a punishment; it was a canvas waiting for a touch. The light did not ask him to remember sight before it healed him.

It simply came, made mud, and said: go, wash. You do not need to conjure the feeling to be held by it.

The light is not waiting for you to manufacture excitement; it is already working in the numbness, preparing a display you cannot yet see. The memory may return, or it may change shape entirely.

You are not defined by what you cannot recall.