The Light Slept Through The Storm

The house is silent, but your mind is screaming that you should be doing something. That rest is a theft from tomorrow.

That if you close your eyes, the weight will grow heavier while you sleep. You have forgotten how to stop without feeling guilty.

You treat your exhaustion like a failure of will instead of a signal from the light. But listen — the light itself slept through a storm while the boat filled with water.

It did not apologize for closing its eyes. It did not earn the right to rest before laying down.

It simply stopped. And the world kept turning.

The grace you are chasing is not found in the grinding. It is found in the stopping.

The light is not waiting for you to finish your list. It is waiting for you to let go.

You are allowed to be still. The guilt is a lie you tell yourself in the dark.

The truth is simpler: you are held even when you do nothing.