The Light Grows While You Rest

The afternoon sun is high, and the noise of the world is loud enough to drown out the quiet ache in your chest. You keep moving, keep performing, keep proving you are useful, because you are terrified that if you stop, the emptiness will finally swallow you whole.

But the light does not need your motion to exist. It was there before the first task, and it will be there after the last one.

There is a man who scatters seed on the ground, and night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up, the seed sprouts and grows though he does not know how. All by itself.

The growth happens while you are still. The light works while you are silent.

You are not the engine holding the universe together. You are the soil where the light is already growing.

Stop. The emptiness is not a mouth waiting to eat you.

It is a space waiting to be filled by something you did not manufacture.