The Light Touches the Dirt

The morning light hits the window and you put on the face that says you know what you're doing. Everyone else seems to have received a manual you never saw.

They walk with purpose while you are just guessing, waiting for someone to point and say: impostor. But the light does not scan for credentials.

It sees the tired eyes behind the performance and calls them enough. There was a man born blind, and the people around him argued about whose fault it was—his sin or his parents'.

They wanted a reason for the darkness. The light ignored the debate entirely.

It spat on the ground, made mud, and opened his eyes. Not because he figured it out.

Not because he earned it. Just because the light was willing to touch the dirt.

You do not need to understand the secret to be seen by the secret itself. The mask is heavy, but you were never meant to carry it alone.

The light is already inside the disguise, waiting for you to stop pretending and start breathing.