The Light Runs Into The Fire

The world is loud right now, and you are wearing the face that says you are holding it together. But underneath the smile at work, there is a quiet, terrifying relief when everything starts to burn.

It feels like proof that the ruin inside you is not a mistake, but the truth. You think the light must be disgusted by this secret alignment with the chaos.

But the light does not recoil from the ash. It walks right into the fire to find you.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, covered in the filth of a life wasted, and he did not wait for the cleanup. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech — he ran. Your inner wreckage does not scare God away.

It is the very thing that draws the love closer. The mask you wear to survive the morning is heavy, but the light sees the cracks and calls them holy.

You do not have to fix the ruin before you are loved. The fire outside cannot consume what was already forged in the flame.