The Honest Tremor of Your Hand
The cursor blinks, a steady rhythm against the silence of the room. Your fingers hover, terrified to type words your heart cannot feel, certain that the performance will be seen through.
But the light does not demand a perfect script; it only asks for the honest tremor of your hand. There is a story of a man born blind, not because of sin, but so that the works of God might be displayed in him.
Your inability to feel is not a verdict; it is the canvas. The light is not looking for a flawless confession, but for the raw truth of this moment.
You do not have to manufacture affection to be held. The mask is heavy, but the face beneath it is already known.
Drawing from
John 9:3, John 8:11
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