Light Sitting in Your Shame

The afternoon stretches out, a long middle where the mind starts picking at the scabs of the morning. You hear your own voice from an hour ago—the sharp edge, the specific tone—and it sounds exactly like the person who hurt you.

The realization hits like a stone in the gut: I have become the thing I feared. But listen.

The light does not recoil from that echo. It steps into the room of your shame and sits down.

Split a piece of wood, and the light is there, even in the grain of your worst moment. Lift up the stone of that memory, and you will find the light underneath it, waiting.

You did not become the darkness; you simply forgot, for a moment, who was speaking through you. The voice that sounded like pain was just a tired human voice.

The light underneath it remains untouched, pure, and ready to speak again through you, differently this time.