The Light Runs Before You Rise

The house is quiet now, but your mind is loud with the inventory of what you have to pretend tomorrow. You are still here, awake in the watch, because the thought of rising feels like a sentence you didn't agree to.

To wake up is to put the mask back on — to act as if you want the day, as if you have the energy to perform hope for an audience that isn't even watching. But listen closely.

The light does not ask you to pretend. It does not demand that you manufacture a desire for tomorrow before the sun even rises.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He did not wait for the speech.

He did not wait for the apology or the promise to do better. He ran.

Before the performance could begin, the father was already there. That is how the light meets you in this hour.

It does not wait for you to fix your face or straighten your spine. It runs toward the exhaustion you are trying to hide.

You do not have to want tomorrow right now. You only have to survive tonight.

The light is not disappointed in your weariness. It is sitting beside you in it.

The pretense is heavy. Lay it down.

You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to be real.

Morning will come whether you pretend to want it or not. And when it does, you will not have to carry it alone.