You Are Not The Ghost

The morning light cuts through the window, and you watch your own hands fold together, moving through the motions you have known for years. It feels like watching a stranger perform a ritual, while you float somewhere behind your eyes, a ghost haunting the machinery of your own body.

You say the words, but they bounce off the ceiling, empty of weight, empty of you. — But the light does not need your performance to be present.

It is not waiting for your hands to tremble with the right amount of feeling. It is already inside the silence between the words you cannot mean.

Go home to your own house, to your own people, and tell them how much the Lord has done for you, and how he has had mercy on you. The ritual is not the proof of your faith; the mercy is.

You are not the ghost. You are the one being held.