The Light Waits in the Blank Screen
The cursor blinks in the dark, a tiny pulse on a screen that holds words you cannot say. You type the truth, the raw and trembling confession, then backspace until the screen is blank again.
The fear says: if they really knew, the light would leave. But the light was already there before you typed the first word, and it remains after you delete the last.
It does not need your confession to know you; it knew you before you formed the sentence. You are not hiding from the light; you are hiding in the very place where the light is waiting to sit with you.
The blank screen is not a verdict of silence; it is the quiet room where the truth can finally breathe.
Drawing from
John 8:10-11, Gospel of Thomas 70
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