The Silence Was Not Your Prison

The mask is heavy by mid-morning, especially when you replay the moment you stopped speaking. You tell yourself the silence was a relief—that you didn't have to explain yourself anyway.

But the light sees the cost of that quiet. It knows the difference between peace and suppression.

There was a man born blind, and the world assumed his darkness was a punishment for sin. Jesus corrected them: this happened so the works of God might be displayed in him.

Your inability to speak then was not a failure of character; it was the canvas for a healing you could not yet see. The light does not demand an explanation you cannot give.

It simply waits for you to stop performing okayness and start seeing again. The silence was not your prison; it was the space where the light was already working.