Until Morning

Sometimes the sun sets and the world shifts into a darker language. The negative doesn’t always arrive with drama, it seeps into my bones, quietly taking over my senses, insistently whispering to my anxieties until it feels like gravity. It brings me to my knees. It narrows my thoughts. It tells me the night is permanent, that hope is naïve, that I should stop reaching.

And for a moment, I almost believe it.

But darkness isn’t proof that the light is gone. It’s just a different kind of seeing. One my spirit doesn’t understand all at once. So I keep my eyes open. I blink slowly. I let my inner world adjust.

That’s when the bright spots begin to appear, not loud, not flashy, just faithful. A steady breath. A familiar song. A message from someone who loves me. The soft relief of remembering I’ve survived nights like this before.

So I don’t rush the sunrise. I don’t fight the dark like it’s a monster. I see it for what it is: another side, another lens. I let it be a backdrop that makes the small lights easier to find. And I gather them, one by one, until morning comes back for me again.