Light in the Fluorescent Aisle

The song starts in the grocery store aisle, and suddenly the air is too thin to breathe. You have to stand perfectly still, gripping the cart, because any movement might give away the fact that you are crumbling inside.

A single melody has turned a public room into a private tomb, and you are holding your breath so no one sees the tears. But the light does not require you to hold it together.

It knows the weight of that silence. It is not shocked by your stillness.

There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world—even when that world feels like it is collapsing in a fluorescent aisle. You came from the light, the place where the light came into being on its own accord, and you will return there, even if you have to walk out of this store shaking.

The song cannot steal your origin. It cannot erase the place where you were made.

Stand still if you must. Wait for the wave to pass.

But know that the light is not in the memory that hurts you—it is in the quiet, unbreakable core that remains when the music stops.