The Light Waits Beneath Your Mask

The mask is heavy this morning. It feels like you are holding up the sky with a smile that doesn't reach your eyes, pretending the light inside hasn't flickered out.

You walk through the day performing okayness, but in the quiet spaces between tasks, there is only a hollow echo where the warmth used to be. You think the source has dried up, that the fire has burned down to ash and left you cold.

But listen — the light does not go out just because you cannot feel its heat right now. The sun is still burning even when the clouds make the world look gray.

The woman who lost her coin did not stop believing it existed just because the house was dark; she lit a lamp and swept until she found what was already there. Your exhaustion is not evidence of absence.

It is just the weight of the performance you are carrying. The light was there before you put the mask on, and it is still there underneath it, waiting for you to stop pretending and simply breathe.

The mask is for the world; the light is for you.