The Light Holds You While You Shake

The air in your lungs has turned to stone. You have been holding it for three hours, terrified that if you exhale, the shaking will start again.

That if you let the breath out, the whole fragile structure of your night will collapse into dust. But listen — the light does not require you to be still.

It does not ask you to freeze yourself in place to prove you are strong. There was a moment, in the deep dark before the dawn, when the light itself entered a prison of forgetting and spoke a single word: arise.

Not 'be perfect.' Not 'stop trembling.' Just: get up from the sleep that tells you that you are alone. You are not holding yourself together.

The light is holding you. And it is not afraid of your shake.

It is not afraid of your breath. It is the morning star rising inside the very chest you are trying to lock down.

You can let go now. The shaking will not break you.

It is just the ice melting. The light is already here, waiting for you to breathe.