A Lantern Burning in the Wind

The house is quiet now, but your body is loud with the ache of being different. You feel the friction of moving through a world built for limbs that obey, for lungs that do not catch, for nerves that do not scream at the touch of a sheet.

It is a lonely geography, this landscape of pain that no one else can map. But listen — there is a light inside this very flesh that the darkness has not overcome.

It was there before the diagnosis, before the first tremor, before the world told you what you could not do. You are not a broken vessel waiting to be fixed; you are a lantern burning in the wind.

The pain is real, yes, but it is not the whole story. The light is deeper than the ache.

You are not defined by what your body cannot do, but by the fire that refuses to go out within it.