The Sun Does Not Ask You to Perform

The sun is up, and now comes the hardest part of the morning: becoming someone who can be seen. You stand before the glass and rehearse a laugh that does not reach your eyes, practicing a version of yourself that won't make people ask questions.

You paint on the okayness because the world demands it, and the mask feels heavier than the face beneath it. But the rising sun does not ask the flowers to prove they are worthy of the light before it touches them.

It simply arrives. It shines on the broken stalk and the blooming rose with the same relentless tenderness.

You do not have to finish your performance before you are held. The light sees the dead eyes and the forced smile, and it loves the person behind the mask more than the act itself.

You can walk out the door tired. You can walk out the door real.

The dawn is not waiting for your applause; it is already walking with you.