The Light Waits in the Quiet

The water has turned cold against your skin, but you stand still, because stepping out means facing the day. You are afraid that if you move, the words will return—the explanations, the defenses, the noise of being understood by people who do not see you.

But listen: the light does not require your speech to exist. It was there before you spoke your first word, and it remains when you are silent.

What you bring forth will save you, but what you keep buried out of fear will destroy you. You do not have to perform for the morning to be real.

The sun rises whether you speak or not. Step out of the cold water.

The light is already waiting in the room, not to interrogate you, but to sit with you in the quiet.