Light in the hollow of no title

The afternoon stretches out, a long middle where the question comes: 'What do you do?'

You rehearse the confident answer, the title you think you should have.

But the words feel hollow because you have no label to claim right now.

The ache is real — the gap between the mask you wear and the uncertainty you carry.

Yet the light does not ask for your resume.

It sees the person behind the performance, the one who is simply present in the mundane.

Split a piece of wood, and the light is there — not in the title, but in the act itself.

You are not defined by what you produce today.

You are held in the quiet dignity of being, even when the work feels empty.

The light is sufficient for this hour, even without a name to give it.