You Are the Feast, Not Just the Server

The house is quiet now, and the inventory of the day begins to weigh on you. You realize you have been starving yourself to keep everyone else full, handing out pieces of your soul until there is nothing left on your own plate.

The gathering dark makes this hunger visible in a way the daylight never allowed. But listen — the light does not ask you to burn yourself down to warm the room.

There is a bread that does not diminish when it is broken, a water that wells up from within you even when your cup is empty. You were not made to be a vessel that pours until it cracks.

You are the place where the feast is stored, not just the hands that serve it. The terror you feel is not the end of your story; it is the signal that you have forgotten to eat.

The light is not asking for your leftovers; it is setting a place for you.