Unclench Your Empty Hand

You are still holding your hand in the shape of a glass long after you set it down. The fingers are curled around nothing, the muscles tight with the memory of a weight that isn't there anymore. It is a phantom ache, this grip on something you cannot release even though your hand is empty.

In the garden, before the end began, the light itself fell on its face in the dirt and whispered: 'If it is possible, take this cup from me.' It knew the weight of the cup. It knew how heavy the grip could become. And yet, when the moment came to walk forward, it did not carry the cup of fear — it carried only the will to move.

The struggle is not that the cup is heavy. The struggle is that you are still holding it when the table is clear. You are gripping the air, exhausted by a burden you already put down.

Unclench your fingers. The weight is gone.