The Light Remains When Words Are Deleted

The cursor blinks at the end of a paragraph you just erased. You typed it all out—the ache, the confusion, the raw truth of why you hurt—and then you stopped.

Your finger hovered over the backspace key. And slowly, word by word, you deleted the whole thing until the screen was blank again.

You decided your pain was too heavy to send. Too much for them to carry.

Or maybe you decided it didn't matter enough to share. But listen.

The light does not need your words to know what is happening inside you. You came from the light, the place where the light came into being on its own accord.

That origin is still inside you, even when the screen is empty. There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world.

If it does not shine, it is dark. But the darkness you feel right now is not the absence of the light.

It is the silence of a truth waiting to be born. You do not have to send the message for the light to hear you.

It was there before you typed the first letter. It remained when you deleted the last one.