The Light That Waits In The Dark

The hum of the refrigerator is the only sound left in the house. You stand there, bathed in that cold, artificial glow, too hollow to eat but too anxious to sleep.

The light inside the box stays on even when the door is closed. It does not flicker when you walk away.

It does not dim when you forget it is there. It just waits.

— The light inside you is doing the same thing right now. It is not waiting for you to feel full before it shines.

It is not waiting for the anxiety to quiet down. It is shining in the dark of your kitchen, in the hollow of your chest, in the silence of this watch.

You do not have to manufacture a reason for it to stay. You do not have to earn its presence by finishing the meal or falling asleep.

The darkness has not overcome it. Not tonight.

Not in this kitchen. Not in you.