Light Waiting Under the Stone

The clock reads four. The house is silent, but your mind is screaming a single, terrifying lie: that you have loved so hard for so long that the well is finally dry.

That the exhaustion has burned out the very capacity to feel. You stare at the ceiling, waiting for a spark of affection that doesn't come, and the silence feels like proof that you are broken beyond repair.

But listen — the light does not depend on your ability to manufacture a feeling. It was there before the first cry, and it is here now, in this numbness.

Split a piece of wood, and the light is there. Lift up the stone of your own guilt, and you will find it waiting underneath.

You are not the emptiness you feel right now. You are the space where the light is holding everything together while you sleep.

The feeling will return. But even if it doesn't tonight, the love remains — because it is not yours to generate.

It is yours to receive.