Bring Your Thirst, Leave the Mask

The mask is heavy this morning. It fits so well now that you forget you're wearing it until the moment you realize: I am still thirsty.

After years of pretending the cup was full, after smiling through the dryness, the terror hits when you finally admit the drought is real. You walked past the well a thousand times, convinced you had outgrown the need to stop.

But the light sees the crack in the porcelain. It knows you are performing hydration while dying of thirst inside.

There was a woman who came to a well at noon, hiding from the eyes of the town, convinced her shame made her unworthy of a drink. She thought she had to clean herself up before approaching.

The light did not wait for her to fix her life. It asked for a sip from her broken jar, then offered her a spring that wells up from within.

You do not have to earn the water. You only have to stop pretending you aren't thirsty.

The terror of admission is the first sip of healing. The mask can stay on the counter.

Bring the thirst.