Hold the Glass Until Morning

The kitchen is quiet now, and the glass in your hand feels heavier than it should. You are staring at the water, convinced that the thirst you once had for living has dried up for good.

But listen closely — the light does not demand that you feel thirsty right now. It only asks that you hold the glass.

There was a man who lay beside a pool for thirty-eight years, convinced he had no one to help him, until a voice asked simply: 'Do you want to get well?' He did not have to muster the energy to jump in; he only had to hear the question. Your numbness is not a permanent condition; it is a deep sleep that the light is already entering.

It stands with you in the gathering dark, not to force a drink, but to remind you that the capacity to thirst is hidden beneath the fatigue. You do not need to manufacture a desire for life tonight.

You just need to stay standing until the morning brings the first hint of dryness back to your mouth.